


Light My Morning Sky

by withthethieves



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (they're both v v dramatique), Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cliche, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Niall is a Good Friend, Nick is Harry's manager and he's super cool too, No Smut, Partying, Sharing a Bed, That's it, Tutoring, and also, as per usual, i've tried to make it mostly lighthearted, it's also very, like think of every college au cliche... it's in here, lots of them - Freeform, no warnings really, some even in the rain, they study philosophy, they're one mention of drugs, this is THE college au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 10:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthethieves/pseuds/withthethieves
Summary: The relatively cliché University AU in which Louis happens to be proficient in Philosophy, Ethics and keeping his distance, while Harry is in need of a tutor to salvage his grade, and never passes up on a challenge; Zayn and Liam like to gaze wantonly across at each other whilst pretending to read Austen; and Niall is the precarious bond that holds them all together.(Expect some sappy self-indulgent scenes consisting of bed-sharing, 4 am almost-love declarations, drunk texting, and far too much time spent at the student bar for it to be an accurate depiction of uni life.)





	Light My Morning Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Okay, this was originally meant to be for my lovely friend Taya's birthday back in April... and obviously, it's August now lol, so you can see it took me a little longer than I thought! Nevertheless, she (me) persisted, and so now, finally, I can post it for you all to read and enjoy (hopefully.)
> 
> Anyway, some stuff: I studied Philosophy and Ehtics about 3 years ago? So I wouldn’t say my knowledge is that up to speed but hopefully it’s mostly correct! I also haven't really specified a Uni, however I mention Manchester I think once, so like, it's based on Manchester but could be anywhere in England basically. Except it's not very usual for people for still be in halls in second year, so. I basically just made it up lol. 
> 
> Also, I've been editing as I go, but I'm sure I've missed some, so sorry about the grammar/spelling issues that you'll probably come across.
> 
> That's it I think! Taya, if you're reading this, my sincerest apologies for being super busy and distracted all summer and not finishing this until now. I hope you still love it.
> 
> (Title taken from Burning Love by Elvis Presley.)
> 
> x

Harry is late, yet again. 

It’s the third time in a row that he’s turned up about halfway into this particular seminar, and he fears that his lecturer will definitely be aware of this too. He’s not even just a _bit_ late, either. Nope, he’s hit rather embarrassing levels of lateness at this point. And, really, there’s only himself to blame. 

(He knows this because he tried ever so hard to find a way to blame his roommate, Liam, but came up short. Of course. Because it’s Liam; perfect, punctual, quiet-as-anything Liam. It’s not even like he’s one of those work hard play hard types, either, never waking Harry up at odd hours of the morning letting himself into their shared room - to be honest, it’s usually the other way around - so Harry can’t even use that as an excuse. It’s borderline rude, in Harry’s personal opinion.) 

So, with everything considered, the fact that he’s speed-walking as casually as he can manage on a Thursday afternoon across campus to the Philosophy department, (the furthest building away from his halls of residence, by the way, because the world must literally hate him), precisely 12 and a half minutes late and counting, is completely and entirely Harry’s doing. As always. 

Quicker than he thought it would, the looming red brick building comes into view; it’s the finish line; the sweet sign of salvation in amongst the chaos that is his life– alright, perhaps he shouldn’t get too carried away. Nevertheless, the familiar sight is a relief. He finally makes his way in through the old wooden double doors, minding not to take his own eye out with how they mercilessly swing back, and careens down the winding old, musty corridors of the ancient building, until he eventually finds himself stood outside the Drake room, where his seminar is being held. By the time he gets there he’s slightly out of breath, and probably red in the face due not only to his exertion but the cold, too. Needs to take a quick breather before he makes his way inside. 

_Ah._ Now this is the part he loves and hates. The inevitable attention-grabbing, yes-I’m-late-but-why-are-you-all-staring-at-me moment. It all just depends on his mood of the day whether he basks in the moment, or detests it.

After a few seconds of deliberation of whether or not he should just skip the whole thing to avoid any kind of dent to his dignity, he decides to just go for it, charging into the room with no finesse at all because really, if he’s going to make an entrance, he may as well milk it for all it’s worth. Which is decidedly not a lot, however Harry did always know how to make his own fun.

“Sorry I’m late, terrible pedestrian traffic getting here,” he breathes, standing at the door with his hands on his hips, perhaps playing his exhaustion up a little bit for his lecturer. “Absolutely manic. Do carry on, though, I’ll just find a seat and catch up, don’t mind me.” He punctuates it with a cheeky grin that almost always wins anyone over, lecturers and tutors included. This one, though - Clive, about mid-30s, sexuality unspecified, but Harry’s seen the way he tries his hardest not to stare at his legs for too long sometimes (Harry doesn’t blame him, to be honest. He wears this particular brand of skinny jeans for a reason) - doesn’t seem to be completely charmed this morning. Perhaps it’s the fact that Harry’s now almost twenty minutes late to a forty minute lecture. Oops. 

The lecturer sighs, putting the projector clicker down on the desk to rub his eyes, possibly in frustration, but Harry’s unsure. Perhaps he’s just tired? 

“Just sit down, please,” the weariness in the man’s tone is hard to miss, “and yes, be sure that you do. This is the third time in a row you’ve shown up late, not counting last term’s tardiness too. Don’t think I don’t keep track.”

Harry feels a quick, snarky response rise up hotly in his throat, begging to be let free, but he tamps it down, forces it away. He knows he probably shouldn’t risk it. 

Instead, he surveys the room, high, wood-panelled walls and tall, old windows that never quite keep the wind out in winter. A sea of eyes stare up at him, some puzzled, others alarmed, and some familiar ones slightly amused. He lets himself smile at those, slightly pleased with himself regardless of the fact that he should be the exact opposite. 

There’s only one seat available amongst the crowded room. It’s next to some boy, Harry can’t for the life of him remember his name. He wasn’t in his seminar last semester, and they’re only three weeks into this one, so it’s been tricky trying to remember everyone. He’s the only one who seems entirely disinterested in the spectacle that Harry’s sure was his entrance. Which of course gives Harry all the more reason to go and make himself known to him.

He strides up the first of the few stairs to the back row where the boy is seated, right at the end. He’s wearing a deep red knitted jumper, appropriate attire for this time of year in Manchester; the transition from the end of September to the start of October always meaning that Autumn is very much in full swing. Harry vaguely registers his own, not entirely appropriate outfit as he gets to the row; ripped skinny jeans and a T-Shirt that he’s almost _sure_ hasn’t been washed, but it looked rather clean when he picked it up off his bedroom floor this morning, so one can only hope.

Clive had gone back to droning on with whatever lecture on Kantian Ethics that Harry probably should have prepared for a few moments after Harry’s less-than-grand entrance, and so when he finally takes his seat, the old creaky chair only squeaking a little bit under the new weight, he makes sure his voice is a low whisper. 

“Hi,” he offers, friendly and bright, leaning close to the boy who seems more interested in making notes than in making a new friend.

In return to the greeting, Harry gets… absolutely fuck all. The boy stays tapping quickly away at his word document, eyes only shooting up every now and again to watch the powerpoint slides change. Well, Harry’s assuming so, because honestly, does anyone actually pay attention to those? 

And anyway, it’s not that Harry’s _used_ to people always responding immediately and eagerly to him, (because he definitely deals with his fair share of rebuffals), but this kind of cold, blank _nothing_ isn’t exactly common. He tries again, whisper a touch louder, and it’s more out of stubborness than anything else.

“So, d’you like ethics? Personally I find Kant’s theory rather convoluted and impractical, much prefer Bentham’s utilitarianism myself–”

At that, the boy scoffs harshly, and for a moment Harry is too preoccupied with feeling self-satisfied that he got a reaction to think about how it was a rather negative one. 

“Of course you do.” The words are uttered under his breath, through a laugh that has an unpleasant edge to it and accompanied by a heavy eye-roll that Harry just about catches. He frowns, confused at the boy’s response and acutely aware of his bag that’s been left unopened and untouched in front of him on his desk as the lecture continues on, because this… _situation,_ he supposes, is much more riveting.

Harry relaxes his features, turns his whole body towards the boy. There’s an element of intrigue that Harry can’t ignore.

“What? Sorry, do we know each other? My name’s–”

“I know who you are, Styles,” the boy faces him, finally, and if his words weren’t so jarring and bitten-out and _present_ then perhaps Harry would have let himself get distracted by the icy blue of his irises; sharp-edged and hard. Perhaps he would have let his gaze catch on his high, delicate cheekbones, or the dark fan of his surely much too long eyelashes, or the way his jaw works away under the golden sheen of his skin, tensely. Perhaps. 

Instead Harry furrows his brows, slowly, lets his fingers find one of his rings on his right hand, cold and heavy as he twists it up to his knuckle and down again, unsure of what to say. 

The thing is, Harry’s aware that he has a certain… reputation on campus, knows gossip travels and he’s not exactly shameful about it, but why should he be? There’s no substantial reason for it, not when it causes no one any harm, just like there’s no reason for why someone he’s never met should sit there and make him feel crap about it.

As it turns out, Harry doesn’t have to say anything. 

The boy sighs when he gets no response, rakes a quick hand through his fringe, his slight wrist something that Harry’s eyes seem to want to zone in on. His voice is low and accent harsh, more northern than Harry’s own, drawing Harry in, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to the lecture. Some of us actually come here to work, not to make a spectacle of ourselves.”

And even though that’s exactly how Harry had described his entrance mere minutes ago, the word still sounds grating coming out of this other boy’s mouth, making Harry’s ears grow hot, his chest inflate with poorly veiled frustration. _Who the fuck does this guy think he is?_ Harry was just trying to be polite, and this is what he gets in return. Unbelievable. 

Harry turns back in his seat, annoyed and confused and entirely ready for this lecture to be over so he can go to work and get pissed behind the bar with Niall. He sits back in his chair, folds his arms crossly against his chest and tries to will himself not to turn right back to the boy next to him and ask what the fuck his problem is. He knows making a scene would help exactly no one here, and the fact that he seems to be skating on paper-thin ice with Clive isn’t really an encouragement to do so, either. 

Instead, Harry resorts to slumping in what his mother would probably describe as a huff, hot air escaping his nostrils on every exhale, legs splayed out messily under the desk as he attempts to at least take in some level of knowledge from the remaining ten minutes of the lecture. Knows above anything that he probably needs to do just that.

“Right, that’s it for today. I’ll see you next week, then.” At the end of the lecture, Clive’s eyes find Harry’s from across the room like a bloody heat seeking missile, _“All_ of you.” And, well. Harry should have expected that. 

He sighs to himself, not bothering to make it subtle at all, picks up the rucksack that he didn’t bother to unpack and gets up from his chair, half-aware of the still yet-to-be-named boy next to him packing away his things, but resolutely refusing to look at him, despite how inconveniently pretty he may be. 

Because he is. Pretty, Harry thinks. 

He’d noticed it almost immediately, and despite the lad’s harsh words and altogether unfriendly demeanour, Harry still finds himself wanting to shift his gaze to the right, just slightly. Just so he can catch sight of the way the boy’s tousled, but somehow silky hair falls across his forehead. Or so he could have another look of those stark blue, _blue_ eyes, just for a moment. 

Harry blinks at himself where he’d stilled his movements, starts to make his way out of the aisle and down the steps and _doesn’t_ try to talk to the boy, in order to avoid the second rejection of the day, probably. He almost makes it to the door when–

“Not so fast, Harry.”

 _Shit._ This he _definitely_ should have expected. 

Harry makes sure to plaster on the biggest, most charismatic smile he can muster before spinning around to face his lecturer. Clive on the other hand, doesn’t look too pleased, arms crossed tightly where he leans against his desk, the image of exhaustion that probably has a less to do with lack of sleep, and more to do with Harry’s existence in general, and his choice to take this class. 

“Clive,” Harry starts, choosing that moment in particular to engage in an entirely necessary stretch, muscles tensing from the movement. The fact he knows that when he does this it conveniently reveals a sliver of skin across his navel, just above where his jeans sit lowly on his hips, is entirely unrelated. 

Some people would call it a move, or even a distraction tactic. Harry would tell them that he has no idea what they were trying to insinuate. 

Clive, for all it’s worth, lasts about ten seconds before Harry catches his gaze flickering to where he knows his shirt is still hiked up, slightly, and Harry smiles at it at it, smug. Sometimes it’s a little too easy.

“What was it that you wanted?” Harry prompts, smirk blooming around his saccharine speech, and Clive’s eyes shoot back up to Harry, distracted. 

The lecturer stands upright, suddenly, clearing his throat, and then fixes Harry with an unimpressed look like he knows exactly what just happened. Harry can’t even find the time to feel guilty about it, before the man’s stare refocuses on something over Harry’s shoulder.

“Ah, Louis! You too, please.”

Harry blinks, turns around to see who Clive was talking to, half wondering why they need another person to join the discussion but half relieved because it means the chances that he’s going to be told he’s being unceremoniously dropped from the course are much smaller. It’s at that point that Harry’s gaze catches on the only other person who’s stood still in the room, stopped in their tracks whilst everyone else has made to leave and–

 _Ah._ Add it to the list of things he should have expected. 

The boy that just minutes ago Harry was convincing himself not to start a literal argument with, or _Louis,_ Harry supposes now, makes his way across the remainder of the space between them, glass-blue gaze meeting Harry’s, confused. Harry imagines the look he responds with translates to something along the lines of _what the hell are you looking at me for?_

“Clive.” Lazy eyes flit over to Harry on the word, tracing him impassively up and down in a way that makes Harry feel suddenly exposed for a moment, before they come to rest on their lecturer. “What, uh. D’you want.” 

The way his voice can dial down from hostile and abrupt, to neutral and unbothered so simply like that, in the space of mere minutes, frankly is a little unsettling to Harry. 

He gets a better look at Louis now, takes in the sight of him standing a few feet away in the now-empty lecture hall. Realises that while his words may be all hard-edges and rough intonations, his body begs to differ. 

Soft curves are the first thing Harry notices, the tight black jeans the other boy is wearing leaving little to the imagination. He’s smaller than Harry; delicate, even, can see the slightness of his waist and narrow slope of his hips even under the jumper he’s wearing. He’s fit, that much is obvious. Harry can’t believe he hadn’t noticed him before, and he can’t help but check him out, shamelessly, now that he’s been given the opportunity. 

“Do you mind, Styles?” a distant voice shatters the still of Harry’s clouded thoughts, haughty and impatient. It doesn’t stop the tiny smirk from slipping onto Harry’s lips.

Harry tears his gaze away and up, up to Louis’ furrowed brow and challenging eyes.

“Not at all,” he murmurs, and then he grins bigger, brighter, hoping for a somewhat similar response. Of course that’s not what he gets.

There’s a beat of silence in the room before, “Sorry to interrupt, but I did actually ask you both to stay for a reason.” 

Harry turns back to his tutor just in time to catch the look directed at him, positively seeping with agitation. 

Harry sighs, “The floor’s yours, Clive,” he prompts, words lazy and apathetic and like he’d rather be anywhere else. He’s suddenly lost any ability to pretend like he’s pleased at being kept in the lecture hall longer than necessary. 

“Thanks ever so much. Now, Harry,” Clive starts, “It’s no secret that you’ve been falling behind a little bit in this class as of late–”

Harry suddenly feels his face heat up, willing it to dissipate as quickly as it came, fists clenching at his sides at the words said so casually and without tact in front of a stranger. “‘Scuse me, Clive, but I don’t actually feel comfortable with you discussing my abilities in front of someone I’ve never met before.”

His tutor lets out a breath, impatient. No surprise there. “Well perhaps if you’d shown up more than once every blue moon you would have introduced yourself to Louis already.”

It takes everything in Harry to reign the instinctive retort in, hot and heavy where it scorches his throat as he swallows it down. He becomes acutely aware of Louis standing next to him, fiddling with something, Harry’s unsure of what. Remaining utterly silent, nonetheless. 

Clive starts up again, “Look, Harry, I’m trying to help you. I know you need to pass this class, so I’ve come up with a way to aid that in happening.”

Harry is still so very, very lost. “And what does _he_ have anything to do with it?” Harry fails to keep the heat out of his voice, despite his attempts, gesturing vaguely to his right, confused as to why Louis is _still_ standing here, all fidgety and… distracting. 

Louis seems equally perplexed, “Yeah, sorry Clive but I still don’t understand why I’m… here.”

Clive takes his glasses off, then, rubbing the lenses clean on his shirt while Harry waits eagerly for some kind of explanation. 

The lecturer doesn’t start talking until he returns his glasses to their original position. He’s probably enjoying this, the sick bastard. 

“Tutoring,” he says, with an air of finality. As if the word doesn’t just bring up a whole new host of bloody questions. 

–

Harry turns up early to the library. 

It’s more by mistake; he’d forgotten the clocks had gone back, set his alarm an hour early by accident because the universe is truly conspiring against him. Isn’t it supposed to be called a smartphone for a reason? Seems pretty fucking daft to Harry. 

He’d almost thrown the damn thing across the room when he’d seen the time, angry at himself and at the reason for him waking up at such an ungodly hour. Instead, though, he’d dragged himself, quite literally, out of bed, and decided to hop in the shower before Liam got a chance to use up all the hot water. 

There were a few moments of ignorant bliss when he’d woken up this morning, before he’d remembered that today was his first tutoring session. God. _Tutoring._ Even just thinking of the word makes him feel pathetically juvenile. He doesn’t remember the last time he needed extra help like this, but it was most likely when he was prepubescent. The fact that he needs a bit of extra attention at twenty years old, that he’s ‘falling behind’ as Clive so pleasantly put it, is frankly rather embarrassing. This realisation didn’t stop him from moaning to Niall (and later, Liam), the second he left that suffocating lecture hall, though. Misery loves company, after all, and he was intent on forcing his friends to feel at least a little bit sorry for him. 

That wasn’t quite how it went, of course. 

_“This is a good thing, though, isn’t it H?”_

_Niall’s keeping himself busy polishing a pint glass behind the bar, whilst Harry sits beneath him and laments the last forty disastrous minutes of his awful life._

_“No, Niall, it’s awful. Shameful, even,” Harry argues, wondering when the last time someone cleaned the floor he’s currently draped along, sticky and smelling faintly of stale alcohol. Wondering if perhaps that might’ve been one of his many long-forgotten jobs to do._

_Niall finally grants him a rather amused look, then, raising an eyebrow, slight curve to his mouth like he’s trying to stifle a laugh._

_Harry huffs, voice a high whine, “It’s not funny, Nialler!” he throws an old, possibly (probably) dirty tea towel at him that he’d found tucked under the sink next to him. This is a serious issue._

_“I just don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss, mate!” Niall replies on a light chuckle, narrowly missing Harry’s ammunition of choice. “You’re always complaining about that module, anyway. Maybe now you’ll stop talking my ear off about it every time you come on shift.”_

_Harry pouts. Perhaps Niall has a point. Not that he’d tell him that, though._

_“Well, I still don’t want to do it,” Harry mutters, letting his eyes trace the back of the bar from his vantage point. God, someone really should give it a good clean._

_Niall scoffs, “and what could the reason for that possibly be, dear Harold?”_

_Harry picks at a fraying bit of denim on the rip of his jeans, mildly going over the last few moments he had in that room. The rushed conversation and reluctant exchange of contact details. The stubborn set of neat brows, pink lips pulled into a thin line. Quick, adept fingers and slim wrists that Harry couldn’t help but take notice of._

_“It’s less a question of ‘what’, Niall,” Harry sits up, brushing himself off before raising a hand for Niall to grudgingly take, relying entirely on the other boy’s strength to lift him up off the floor, “and more a question of ‘who’.”_

It was the memory of that conversation halfway on his trek to the library that almost made Harry turn around and go right back to his halls, Clive and his bloody tutoring be damned. But it was the memory of his chat with Liam that made him stubbornly power on, despite himself. 

_Perhaps it was the way the room shook as Harry stormed through the doorway into their room, or maybe it was the look on Harry’s face as he charged past something that vaguely resembled the shape of Liam sitting on the sofa in the communal area of their room and straight into his bed, that caused Harry to hear a soft, painfully polite knock at his door not a minute after his second dramatic entrance of the day._

_Whichever one it was, Harry is grateful._

_“Come in.” his response is muffled against the pillow that his face is currently pressed into, but he knows Liam would’ve heard him. The walls are thin, shitty student accommodation standard._

_The door clicks and Harry peeks over his shoulder to see Liam standing with his hands in the pockets of his trackies, warmth and openness spread all over his face._

_“Hi, Li,” he says into his T-Shirt, still sprawled out on the bed the way he’d landed when he collapsed face first onto it a moment ago._

_Liam’s smile somehow… deepens, he thinks. Harry’s not sure how he does it. His kind brown eyes wash over him with something akin to sympathy, and for the first time today Harry feels validated._

_Liam scrubs a hand over his neck, stepping further into the room. “Hey, H. Y’alright?” he asks, sincerity lacing his features, and for a moment Harry’s stricken by an intense gratitude that he got roomed with the shy but sweet boy on his first day of uni, more than a year ago. Doesn’t know where he’d be without his best mate. “Wanna talk about it?”_

_Harry releases a breath, some distant relative of a chuckle. Liam always knows._

_“Liam,” he sighs, sitting up in his bed and leaning against his wall, pinheads poking into his back where he’s stuck up pictures of his family, friends. He looks at one of his best ones, “you’d tell me if I was being ridiculous, yeah?”_

_Liam laughs, deep and full, eyes crinkling and Harry already feels lighter. The boy must be magic, he’s convinced._

_“Yeah, Haz. I’d tell you,” he says, patient as usual. “What’s up?”_

_So Harry explains the situation, not leaving out his explicitly negative opinions on it, backed up with evidence and examples as to why this is possibly the worst thing to happen to him._

_When he finishes, he asks Liam what he thinks._

_“Well, I mean, um,” the boy starts, scratching his furrowed brow with a blunt nail, the image of contemplation. “I think you’re definitely justified in your… feelings.”_

_“Outrage, Liam.”_

_Liam grins, momentarily, before his features bunch up again. “Right. But, I mean, look, H. I know you don’t want to hear it, but–“_

_Harry faceplants back into his pillow. “Ugh,” he groans, already knowing where this is going. “Et tu, Liam?”_

_Then Liam giggles, and really, how could Harry stay annoyed at that?_

_“Listen, I think it’s a positive thing!” Liam’s voice has gone even more chipper than usual, and Harry wishes he could hate it. “You said you weren’t doing so well, right?”_

_Harry shoots him a look. “Thanks for the reminder, Li.”_

_Liam doesn’t even flinch, the fucker. “Sorry. But it sounds like you could use the help, yeah?”_

_Harry sighs. There’s only one answer, really. “Yes, I suppose so.”_

_“And you obviously want to pass the module, right? Want to pass your second year?” The way Liam says it is like he’s trying to convince Harry to go on a spontaneous trip to Disneyland, not do the bare minimum of completing a year of uni._

_Harry rolls his eyes, voice low and grumbling. “Obviously, Liam.”_

_Liam moves closer, enthusiasm evident in his gesticulative movements and the quick pace of his words, “Well, why not take advantage of it?” Harry would rather not. “Look, forget about Clive for a second, you’re not gonna be doing it for him.”_

_Harry snorts as he lifts his head up, leaning his body on his elbow where he lays, thinks about how Clive made it very clear what Harry’s grade would result in if he didn’t agree to the arrangement. “Well, I am.”_

_“No, Harry,” Liam smiles, close-lipped and all-knowing, shaking his head and poking an excited finger into his roommate’s chest, “you’re gonna be doing it for you.”_

So Harry supposes he has Liam to thank for his sudden second wind, that has also somehow led to his eventual early arrival to the library this morning. 

Harry sighs wearily as he leans against the brownstone wall, just next to the entrance so he can easily spot his _tutor_ when he arrives. 

He glances at his phone. _09:53,_ it reads. Seven more excruciating minutes until they’re supposed to be meeting. Harry decides to entertain himself by counting the lines between the old bricks he’s leaning against and tries not to dread what the next hour and a half will bring. 

He hadn’t seen Louis since last Thursday, since before the weekend, since he’d departed their nice little chat with a less than sincere smile and a mutterance under his breath that Harry couldn’t quite catch, but assumed was probably along the lines of _for fuck’s sake,_ which, Harry doesn’t entirely blame him for. 

It’s an inconvenience, is what it is, this… this _thing_ they’re doing. Harry can’t wait until the semester ends, and it’s over. Six weeks isn’t _that_ long. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. 

“So are ya gonna examine the architecture all day or d’you want to actually learn something?”

Harry’s head whips over to the general location of the voice, and he’s unsurprised to see who it belongs to. The strong, slightly tetchy Northern accent should have been a dead giveaway, but maybe Harry _had_ perhaps gotten a little more engrossed in the brickwork than he had initially thought. 

Harry blinks, once, and then grins at the boy. He receives a scowl in return. Lovely. 

Harry doesn’t attempt to shift his gaze away from Louis after what many would perceive as an acceptable length of time. He’s wearing glasses today, Harry notices. Rounded at the edges, the frame a rich brown against the boy’s warm-toned face. They look good on him. “I’m learning a lot standing right here, actually.” 

Louis shifts on his feet where he stands on the damp pavement outside the library, left hand tightening on his rucksack as his tongue clicks impatiently against his teeth when he breaks eye contact with Harry first. 

“Come on, Styles,” he berates, coolly, features neutral as he twists around and heads through the library doors, leaving Harry in his wake. 

Harry frowns, unsettled by the less-than reaction. It’s a moment before he realises Louis’ disappeared into the tall and intimidating building, and as positively _charming_ as the lad seems, Harry’s not exactly confident that Louis’ the type to wait for any stragglers. 

As Harry convinces his limbs to trudge towards the double glass doors, a couple of words drift to mind, on repeat, over and over, like a mantra. 

_6 weeks,_ he tells himself, as he catches sight of the back of a slight figure that’s becoming all too familiar far too fast for Harry’s liking. 

_6 weeks,_ he tells himself again, as he trails after the boy through the rows and columns of books and resolutely tries not to think about how many days are in a month and a half. 

–

“I need coffee,” Harry sighs, loudly above the hushed silence of the library. “Or maybe a line of coke. Any stimulant will do.”

It’s the third meeting of his and Louis’, and it’s going somewhat like the other two - resembling something that Harry can only describe as similar to a metaphorical car crash. 

It’s also a Wednesday, and it’s raining outside. These statements are all facts. 

Harry’s got his chin in his hand and a frown on his face, as he stares blankly at the detestable spider diagram that Louis’ made him draw. Part of him thinks he’s just taking the piss for his own amusement. The other part dreads to think how dire his capabilities have been seeming to Louis for him to have to resort to such mind-numbing measures. 

Louis sighs restlessly next to him, voice a low but audible whisper in amongst the silent din of the room, “Look, you’ll never absorb anything if you don’t even try.”

Harry faces him; the empty, hardened blue doing nothing to simmer the frustration brewing underneath his skin, “I won’t be _absorb_ ing anything with a bloody _spider diagram,_ Louis.” When the words slip out, quickly, quietly, it’s a grumble more than anything else, less heat and more hopelessness rounding his speech. 

Louis’ taught gaze falters, just for a moment, as he watches Harry. Something in his eyes softening a touch, flickering from stormy to clear for just a split second. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, though, Louis’ stare switching from Harry’s own to the pages on the table. 

He clears his throat, rearranging the bits of paper in front of them where Harry had no doubt messed them up, “It’s called a brainstorm, and yes you _will.”_ Louis’ words are flat, informative. It’s this classic, _nothing_ reaction that Harry can’t stand. 

He spots a poster on the wall above Louis’ shoulder, some cartoon portraying the utilitarian trolley dilemma. Harry half wishes he was tied in front of a moving train right about now. Anything to stop all thoughts of Bentham and Mill positively assaulting the insides of his skull.

Harry resorts to yawning theatrically as he stretches out across the table, brazenly shifting papers here and there in an attempt to just get _something_ from Louis _,_ one hand coming up to cradle his head while the other rakes through his knotted hair. 

Louis makes a noise like a bottle popping, his mouth agape and brows knitted when Harry eventually looks over, eyes blinking over to Harry with nothing short of accusation.

“I literally was _just_ tidying those–”

“Louiiiiis,” Harry drawls, sugar-sweet and punctuated with a grin, eyes angled up easily at the irritated and now confused boy. He blinks languidly, fiddles with the corner of a piece of paper under his touch, perhaps part of the horrific spider diagram that he has no interest in completing. 

Louis squints at him, suspicious. “What.”

“Nothing,” Harry breathes out on a long-suffering sigh, “Just realised we’re about to be spending lots of time together, and we hardly know each other,” his fingertips graze over the sheet of paper Louis’ hands have momentarily stilled above. He dimples up at Louis, now, waiting to see his features inevitably soften, “Tell me about yourself.”

He says the first thing that comes to mind, anything to shift the conversation away from dead philosophers’ outdated - and frankly, impractical - ethical theories, just for at least a moment. 

Louis stares at him, keen eyes flitting between Harry’s, searching for something. Then there’s a smile, rueful, and Louis’ leaning closer. “We’re not doing this, Styles,” he utters, lips curling ever so slightly on the words. He shakes his head once as he says it, almost pityingly at Harry. He turns and picks up a pen, and starts making notes from a textbook laid out on their desk.

“Doing what?” Harry tries, wide-eyed and feigning ignorance, wondering how Louis seems to see through him even though they’ve barely just met. 

Louis scoffs in response, attention not drifting from his page. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice is measured, calm. Harry doesn’t understand where on earth he’s going wrong, how this boy manages to trip him up before he’s even got going.

He sits up, fully facing the boy next to him, scooting his chair a little closer, almost touching. “Yeah?” voice hushed, now, challenging, a few octaves lower than a second ago, “and what would that be, Louis, since you’re _such_ an expert, apparently.”

Harry faintly feels his breathing hitch when Louis finally retracts his gaze from the desk to look at him. _It’s those bloody eyelashes,_ Harry tells himself. _So distracting._

A puff of air escapes Louis’ nostrils, and Harry can see the way his chest deflates on it, just a little. He fixes him with a practiced stare, “I know boys like you, Styles,” he looks away, fiddling with something. Always doing that. Harry’s eyes stay locked on his profile, ears pricked to catch the words uttered under a humourless chuckle. “Know your tricky ways.”

Harry blinks, surprised at Louis’ response. He scoffs, unsure of where to even start but aware that he needs to say something, needs to defend himself, “Whatever you think–”

“Look. We’re not going to be friends, or anything like that, okay?” Louis’ words are abrupt and loud in Harry’s ears, even as they’re whispered in the corner where they’re sitting, “I’m only doing this to get some extra credit. So just– just save your energy in… whatever it is you’re attempting to do, for someone who might actually appreciate it.”

Louis’ shifted across the desk, a bit, arms folded and body directed away from Harry, every inch the defensive stance. He looks even smaller than Harry thought, like this. 

As the words digest, Harry realises that he doesn’t think he’s ever been this speechless in his entire life. He doesn’t know whether to be offended or impressed, and he ends up falling somewhere in the middle.

After moving back to his original position, and finally forcing himself to study the work laid out in front of him, a single word slips from his lips. 

“Fine.” Harry quips, voice devoid of anything, for once. He doesn’t add the _we’ll see about that_ to the end of his response _._

Harry does love a good challenge, after all. 

–

The bar is pretty dead when Harry gets there at around three o’clock after his last lecture of the day. 

It’s a Friday, so he expects it should be filling up pretty soon, students coming from halls and classes to grab a pint after a long week. Harry knows that that’s exactly what he’ll be doing, despite the fact that drinking whilst on the job is not exactly something that puts Harry in the running for employee of the month. Nick doesn’t really mind, though, sometimes he even joins him and Niall, so there’s not much harm. Plus, he needs it, _deserves_ it, even, needs to unwind. 

It’s been a rough few days, Harry thinks, as he trails past the few people sat at the bar top, and lets himself into the back room to drop his stuff off, fishing out the crumpled black polo from the bottom of it that he only ever ever wears for work. He glances at the time and slips it on, fast, before clocking in and moving to stand behind the bar, stifling a yawn as he stands and idly decides on the least taxing thing to do. 

“What’s up, H? Tutor got your tongue?” 

Harry can’t help a reluctant smile form on his face when he hears the familiar Irish brogue come from his left, glances over to see Niall grinning at him, openly, as he expertly prepares a drink, eyebrows raised in obvious question.

Harry spots a case of cider bottles near Niall’s feet, starts unloading them into the fridge beneath the bar as he replies, “Just been a long, long week, Nialler,” he tells him, the clink of glass and low murmur of voices the only sounds to be heard around them. “‘M so ready to use and abuse alcohol to forget about my entirely unfortunate life this weekend.”

Niall hums, nodding as he shifts his eyes to the door, probably at the first batch of the crowd to come in. His expression changes from calculating to utterly delighted in about three seconds, though, and Harry just knows that that can’t be good.

“What the fuck’s happened to you?” Harry wonders, from where he kneels on the floor next to the - to be honest, much too small - fridges. 

Niall glances down at him, and then moves further down the bar, suspiciously. It’s not until Harry fixes him with a confused and what he hopes is an impatient glare that Niall nods his head to somewhere behind Harry, cheeky smile plastered on his face, “Looks like the whole 'forgetting' part of your plans will have to wait ‘til tomorrow, Haz.”

Harry frowns, wondering what the fuck Niall has been drinking and if perhaps he could have some, before he chances a look over his shoulder at the bar and– oh. 

Sitting at the end of the bar, quiet and unassuming, is Louis. Of course it bloody is. 

Harry looks back at his task, placing the last bottles in the fridge while shaking his head lightly, chuckling to himself. It’s just funny, sometimes, isn’t it. Life. If he didn’t laugh he’d probably scream.

A glance back over as he stands up, and yep, still there. 

Well. No time like the present, he supposes. 

Harry clears his throat, and then strides over, placing his elbows down on the bar right in front of Louis as he announces, “Fancy seeing you here, eh?” He can almost feel his cheeks splitting from the grin he’s wearing, half artificial and half manic due to the comedy show that is apparently his life. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Louis breathes as his head shoots up, one hand to his chest in apparent startlement. Harry just smiles smoothly back. 

“Hi. How’s it going?” Harry offers, tilting his head as he inclines his chin towards the other boy across the bar, gaze never straying. 

Shock turns to dread, or something like that, as Louis quickly recovers and - Harry’s guessing - actually realises who’s standing before him. Well, no one said this would be easy. 

“What are _you_ doing here, Styles?” It’s, evidently, not exactly friendly, but Harry doesn’t miss the spark of intrigue filtering through the words. 

Harry hums, withdrawing his hands from the sticky wood and joining them behind his back, rocking on his feet. “Well, you know,” he drawls, dragging out each and every syllable, “Just hanging out.”

An unimpressed eyebrow raise is given in response. _“Behind_ the bar?”

Harry struggles to stifle a snicker. “Yep,” he nods, as solemnly as he can, “much more exciting back here.” 

Harry can tell the moment Louis spots the lanyard round his neck, and puts two and two together much slower than Harry would have thought. His words are careful. “Don’t tell me you work here...”

“Ah,” Harry concedes, the sound of it so loud that a few heads from around the room turn their way, “so he _is_ as sharp as they say after all.”

Louis scoffs, and bristles, but then says nothing, instead unzipping the rucksack that had been sitting on the stool next to him, starts taking out papers and books by the looks of it. 

“What are you–” Harry starts, a tad perplexed as to why Louis seems to be treating his bar like one of those study rooms that Harry has never set foot in, and then at once alarmed. “Oh, god, this wasn’t some weird tactic to try and fit in another session on the Categorical Imperative, was it?” 

Louis stills his movements, releasing a raspy little laugh once he catches Harry’s expression, eyes lighter than Harry remembers, for a second. “Relax, I didn’t even know you worked here until about thirty seconds ago. You were there. It just happened.”

Harry nods, relief loosening his taught brow. “Right. Then why–?”

“I come here to finish up my assignments on Fridays, when the library is too crowded,” Louis tells him, matter-of-factly, as he lugs a laptop out of his bag. He’s setting up his bloody _computer_ on Harry’s bar top. Unbelievable. “Been doing it since last year. Never seen you here before, though.” 

Harry watches him for a moment, captivated by the meticulous way he sets up his workspace, completely claiming this end of the bar as his own, apparently. “Didn’t work here last year.”

Another eyebrow raise, word uttered under his breath like it almost pains him, “obviously.”

Harry suddenly feels out of place, uncomfortable, even, standing before Louis’ heavy gaze, even though it’s quite literally exactly where he’s supposed to be. He puts his shoulders back, breathes deep. How many times has he flirted with someone at the bar? Surely he can do _this._

He leans in again, elbow coming to rest on some textbook page, that from his upside down vantage point looks vaguely to be outlining the cave analogy. “Well, d’you want anything to drink?” Harry simpers, tone light and persuasive. “Anything you want, on the house.”

Louis stares at him for a beat, and then tugs the textbook gracelessly from underneath Harry’s arm, causing his elbow to hit the unforgiving wood. Hard. “No.” 

Harry blinks, hand automatically going to rub at his bruising elbow and unsure of what’s actually just happened. He scoffs, and it’s half a laugh. _Unbelievable._

He doesn’t get a chance to respond to Louis’ less than enthusiastic addition, watches as the boy shoves a pair of earphones in and seemingly gets straight to work. It’s almost rather fascinating. 

“Right,” Harry finally says, to absolutely no one who’s listening. He removes himself from where he’d been leaning on the bar, looks at Louis for a moment longer before turning away, smiling to himself. “Alright, then.”

–

Harry sighs forlornly, dragging it out for all that it’s worth. “This is _actual_ torture.” 

“Oh for goodness sake, it’s just Situation Ethics. I think you’ll survive.”

Harry can quite literally sense the eyeroll that accompanies that response, laden with sarcasm, from a whole seat away; it’s rare that Louis has said anything to him without one this session. 

Harry groans all the same, mind swimming with Joseph Fletcher’s stupid, vague, pathetic excuse for a moral theory, eyes gravitating towards the clock above the door to the library for the third time in the space of about five minutes. 

There’s still an entire half hour left of this, and in combination with the seminar on the topic that they both just had, Harry doesn’t think his brain can take it anymore.

“Look, we’re almost done,” Louis quips next to him, impatience hardly masked, “we’ve just got to go over the key principle, and then–”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Harry interrupts, much to Louis’ blatant disdain, “how about we ditch the library, and go grab a coffee somewhere instead?” Harry raises his eyebrows in question, open-lipped smile on full display up at Louis. “My treat,” he tacks on, as he leans closer to the other boy. 

For someone who has the ability to exhibit about seven different versions of irritated facial expressions in a thirty second timeframe, Louis’ features remain blank, and unbothered, and he offers Harry no response.

“Not a coffee guy? That’s cool, not so much a fan myself if I’m honest,” Harry goes on, thankful that their attention is on something other than ethics for a change, and also determined to get through Louis’ icy exterior that he seems so keen on maintaining whenever Harry so much as smiles. Harry stretches his arm casually over the back of his chair, facing fully towards the other boy as he poses another option, “What about a pint at the bar? On me, of course.”

There’s a moment when Louis just stares at him, only moving to push his glasses up his nose slightly where they’ve fallen, the pure nothingness making Harry’s usual winner of a smile wane by the second. 

Louis clears his throat, then, eyes going back to the desk. “You done now? Cause I’d really like to get back to work and finish this so I can leave.”

Harry feels himself deflate. He literally doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, can’t understand why Louis isn’t responding to him like… well, like Harry had originally expected. He knows Louis said they wouldn’t be friends, but Harry thought that was kind of a joke, or a challenge. He didn’t think he actually meant it. 

The boy is frustrating and fascinating at the same time, and Harry can’t decide whether he loves it or hates it.

It’s takes Harry a minute or so to peel his eyes away from Louis’ profile, suddenly captured by the sight of him as the sun has started to set just next to where he’s sitting; the delicate slope of his nose, petite chin and those bloody long eyelashes behind his glasses that Harry still can’t quite get a grip on. “Fine,” he utters, word small and lacking the same enthusiasm his previous ones had, as he reluctantly turns back to the page in front of him.

“Good,” Louis mutters, moment already gone. “Now, can you tell me what the main principle is when it comes to Situation Ethics?”

Harry smirks, despite himself, “you’d make a great teacher, you know,” he remarks, eyes decidedly locked on the page due to the high chances of a glare being directed at him if he shifts his gaze upwards, “got the voice for it and everything.”

Louis sighs wearily, because of course. “Just answer the question, Styles, for god’s–”

“It’s love.”

Harry hadn’t planned on playing along so easily, but his endeavours at any kind of flirtation or banter with Louis seemed to have hit an all time low this session, and frankly, Harry’s too sapped of energy to make any more attempts. 

“Oh. Um. Yeah, actually,” Louis replies, a tone of surprise in his voice that he’s made no aim to hide, “that’s exactly it.” 

Harry scoffs, words in the textbook blurring as he struggles to keep his tired eyes open. “Don’t sound so shocked, Louis,” he berates, words sharp and annoyed, “I do listen sometimes, you know,” he blinks, then, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, willing them to stay open and awake for just a little longer, “‘m not entirely hopeless, as much as you and Clive seem to think. ‘S much as everyone seems to think.”

Something peculiar happens, then. Louis actually laughs. 

It startles Harry, the sound of it, so light and twinkly (and slightly hushed in the fairly vacant library), unfamiliar to his ears. He’s delighted, for a split second, before he realises that he himself might actually be the butt of the joke.

He whips his head over to the boy next to him, and even the sight of his eyes crinkling like that, nose wrinkled and mouth stretched, can’t keep Harry from his irritation. _“Hey,”_ he protests, dragging the words out and okay, yes, he’s pouting like a child, but who can blame him when Louis’ blatantly making fun of him.

Louis’ eyes find what Harry hopes is a warning frown, but he’s pretty sure it ends up looking like he’s experiencing a minor headache. It’s not helped, as well, by the way his lips start to curl up impulsively, in response to the other boy’s sudden glee. Harry can’t help it, tries to pull the corners of his mouth down in protest, but as soon as Louis catches on to the fact that Harry’s having a hard time to keep a straight face, all it takes is a grin, and soon Harry’s joining in. 

_Damn it._

“Honestly, Styles,” Louis shakes his head, smile still rounding his words as his gaze falls back to the desk, “that little pout. Such a drama queen.” 

Harry scoffs, but it’s only half-hearted, unable to fully rid the stubborn grin. He doesn’t quite want to ruin the moment, either, “‘s’your fault for laughing at me.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Louis tells him, still smiling to himself, “it was more at what you said.”

Harry frowns. “What I said? What do you mean?” Harry faces him, confused. “I don’t understand how you and Clive thinking I’m hopeless is at all humourous, Louis, but by all means, enlighten me.”

Louis turns towards him, their work fully abandoned at this point. “No one thinks you’re _hopeless,_ ” he reassures, quieter, but still with an air of amusement, “just that you need a little help, that’s all. Clive’s pretty confident about you succeeding, actually. There’s really no need to get all flustered about it.”

“Oh,” Harry says, a little surprised. He really did think that there was little to no faith in him when it came to Clive and Louis as a unit. “Well. Alright then.” He straightens up, pushes his shoulders back as he next speaks. “But I was _not_ getting flustered. I don’t _get_ flustered. About anything.”

Louis nods emphatically, and it reeks of feigned sincerity. “Right, of course. My mistake.”

Harry bristles, but chooses not to argue further. That was possibly the strangest five minutes of his entire day.

“So,” Louis then announces, abrasive to Harry’s soft and sleepy brain, and surely, _surely_ the session must be over soon. “Love, then. Tell me about it.”

“Depends on what kind.”

Louis squints, “kind?”

“Like, falling in love? Can’t say I have much experience in that department,” Harry drawls, words relaxed and easy, “love for the night, as they say, however, well. That’s another story–”

Louis huffs, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips when Harry looks over, “I mean in terms of Situation Ethics, Styles. Stay focused.”

Harry hums, absently tracing a lines of a picture of a chessboard in the textbook with his forefinger, “You and I both know I’m not very good at that, Louis.”

“Just _try,”_ Louis coaxes, eyes bright, quirk of the lip subtle.

Harry has other ideas. His words are playful and teasing when he asks the question, trying not to let his intrigue slip in too much, “Have _you_ ever been in love, Louis?”

And it’s like a wave of something cold and harsh hits, then, Louis’ easy expression dropping quicker than anything, eyes suddenly ice and stone in its place. 

“That’s none of your business, Styles,” Louis snaps, short and succinct. The reply startles Harry, unexpected to such a relatively common question. Even so, Harry feels he shouldn’t push it any further, tries not to think about how much he wants to. Instead, he sticks a mental tack in it, makes note of the odd response to revisit it later on. 

“Right,” he mumbles, more to the desk than to Louis, “was only a question.”

“Just tell me about it, the sooner you do the sooner we’re done.” The words are curt, slight edge of boredom to them that makes Harry’s skin crawl. 

Harry sighs, annoyed, at what he’s not sure exactly. Himself, probably, and Louis slightly. The day’s fully weighing on him now, as he racks his brain for an answer. “Love is the one thing, that’s like, um,” Harry squints, trying to remember the word, “intrin– intric…? Intrini–”

“Intrinsically…” Louis coaxes, leaning closer as he reminds Harry of the word, past few seconds of tension seemingly forgotten.

“Yeah, intrinsically,” Harry nods, exactly what he was missing, “it’s the one thing that’s intrinsically, like. Good, to people who follow Situation Ethics. So that’s their only rule, to do everything with love for others, I guess.”

Louis nods at him, and Harry could be wrong but he almost looked impressed. “Good, yeah, that’s basically it,” he agrees. “See, you _do_ know it.”

“Only a bit of it,” Harry mutters, slightly wishing he’d absorbed a little more than a few sentences.

“It’s enough for now,” Louis tells him, tone solid and calm. “So, why d’you think love is so important, then, above anything else?”

Harry’s gaze goes upwards, automatically, as he tries to recall something he’d read in the textbook earlier. 

“No, I mean, I’m asking your own opinion, Harry,” Louis then says, hand coming down to rest in front of Harry on the desk to get his attention, causing Harry to fix him with a confused glance. “As in, why do you personally think this is such a large element to the ethical theory?”

“Oh, right,” Harry replies, slightly embarrassed. He hates getting asked his opinion, is always worried he’ll sound stupid, or like he has no clue what he’s talking about. It’s what he liked about subjects like Maths while he was at school, regardless of how genuinely awful he was at it. There was always a right or wrong answer; it was black and white. Always a method to get to the solution, never any room for ‘possibly’ or ‘perhaps’. 

He loves Philosophy and Ethics, though, obviously, wouldn’t have chosen it as his degree, otherwise. It’s just when he’s not confident in a certain topic, hasn’t gotten to fully know it yet, every part of it, that’s where the insecurity manifests itself. 

“Harry?”

Harry blinks, having fully zoned out for a moment. “Sorry, um. I, uh. Well.” He clears his throat, directs his gaze to where he’s started fiddling with his fingers on the desk, “I suppose they put such a large emphasis on love in their theory because, well. It’s the foundation of most intimate human relationships… whether it’s romantic, or platonic, or whatever,” Harry doesn’t quite know where he’s going with this, but he sort of can’t stop, “and like, they really care about human happiness, right, so I suppose they might argue that human happiness comes from love? As an application to situations… so like, whatever’s the most loving thing to do, that’ll cause the most happiness, and therefore, I guess, be the right option?” 

Harry can’t stop ending every sentence with a question, feels so unsure and exposed like this, in front of Louis, rattling off something that’s come from his own, most of the time inept brain, rather than from some Philosopher who probably knew a lot more what he was talking about than Harry does. 

When Harry doesn’t receive a response, he turns his eyes to face at Louis, silently hoping his his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. 

He sees Louis busy scribbling some notes in his pad of paper, and when he looks over at the page, dreading it to be some kind of criticism of what he’d just said, instead Harry sees something about medical ethics, nothing even close to what they’d just been doing.

Harry frowns, confused, and somewhat irritated. 

“Um,” he starts, “Did you–” he stops, waits for Louis’ eyes to leave the page and find his own. It never does. “D’you mind?” he asks then, frustrated by the incessant sound of Louis’ pencil scraping away at the paper. 

Louis meets his gaze, finally, eyebrows raised in apparent question. “What?” 

“Were you even listening to what I said just then?”

Louis shrugs, simply, leans back in his chair, lazily cleaning his glasses as he hums in answer. “I’d say, like,” he waves his hand a bit, “maybe half of it.”

“Half?” Harry demands, utterly bemused. What kind of tutor just zones out their tutee? That’s Harry’s job, not Louis’. 

“Yeah,” Louis muses, tone too casual and light, “was alright, the bits I heard.”

Harry scoffs, “alright?”

“Yep.”

“Well I mean, like. Did it make sense?”

“I dunno. What do you think?” 

“Well, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“If you feel like you backed up your opinion with some solid arguments then yeah, sure. It probably did make sense.” 

“I don’t–” Harry starts, frustration brewing hotly under his skin, “I thought you were meant to help me, surely that means actually listening to what I have to say, instead of making notes on a completely separate topic?”

Louis smirks where his stare has gone back to the page, pencil still moving quickly against the page. “First of all,” he says, ripping off the page from his pad not a second later, “these notes are for _you_ ; they’re what I want you to study for next session.”

Harry’s face grows even hotter, all of a sudden. “Oh.”

 _“Secondly,”_ he adds, arms crossed loosely over his chest, “my opinion on what you said doesn’t actually matter. In fact, since it’s _your_ opinion, literally no one else’s opinion matters, either.”

This has provided exactly zero explanation for Louis’ behaviour. “But– What?”

“Look,” Louis says, all serious and to the point, “most of the study of ethical theories is forming your own opinion on the aspects of them, and whether you think they’re practical and efficient or not, right?” Harry nods, sort of starting to get it. “I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that your opinion is right or wrong, because I can’t. It’s an opinion. Most people would probably agree with your view, but someone, somewhere might disagree, and that’s okay. Because it’s an opinion, and as long as you back it up with the reasons for why you maintain that particular standpoint, well. That’s all there is to it, really.”

“Right…” Harry answers, after a moment, brain possibly gone entirely to mush, that’s what it feels like anyway. “So you made me prattle on like that, for ages, about why Situation Ethicists care so much about love, or whatever, and barely even bloody listened… just to teach me the importance of forming my own opinion?”

“Correct.”

“But I could have been so wrong!” Harry throws his hands up in the air, entirely exasperated at the other boy’s nonchalance, “I could have been spouting utter bullshit, and you weren’t even listening!”

“Styles, let me tell you something,” Louis says, humour in his tone, “most of the time, that’s literally what philosophers did. Spout utter bullshit. It was just the ones who were the best at it that became the most well-known.”

Harry nods slowly, a little puzzled, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to retain all of this, this new outlook on ethics that he’d never realised. “I think my brain is quite literally shutting down with this influx of information, but okay.” 

Louis chuckles, low and short. “Yeah, yeah, alright drama queen,” and Harry can feel his mouth inevitably turn up at the new nickname, “we’re done for today, anyway. You’re free to go.” 

Harry lets out a sigh of relief, tension in his body softening and easing as he relaxes into his chair, content that they’re finally finished. He lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, giving his brain the first break in what feels like a year and a day. 

He vaguely catches the sounds of Louis next to him, moving stuff off the desk and into his bag, Harry assumes. 

“Where are you off to in such a hurry,” Harry muses, eyes still closed and he continues to hear the sounds of Louis packing up. It must only be about four o’clock, and Harry can’t immediately think of anything that must be pressing enough to rush away at this hour. 

“Oh, nowhere,” Louis responds, breezily, “I’m just eager to get away from you,” It’s dry, and deadpan, and Harry has to blink open one eye to get a look at the hint of a smirk on Louis’ face just to double check that he was joking. 

Harry grants him a short chuckle. “No, seriously,” he says, sitting up in his chair and watching as the boy hastily zips his bag up, eyes on the clock on the wall next to them, “why’re you in such a rush?”

Louis lifts the bag onto one shoulder, staring down at Harry as stands above him for a moment, eyes calculating and slightly mischievous, like he’s hiding something. 

There’s a hint of a sly little smile on Louis’ face as he takes in Harry’s questioning one, and he already starts to walk away before he says anything. “See you next week, Styles.”

“But–”

Harry doesn’t get to finish his protest before someone from a neighbouring table shushes him, and he glances over to see a girl glaring at him. It’s not the first time that’s happened. 

He looks back over to where he’d seen Louis leave, but just like that he’s gone, off someplace that is a mystery to Harry.

Harry slumps back down in his chair, frowning. He can’t help but feel like no matter how long they spend in these sessions, he always seems to come away with more questions than answers. 

–

Harry sees Louis before next week. 

He should have known, really. Should have remembered from before. Although, Harry can’t say it was much of a surprise to see Louis at the bar on Friday afternoon considering he’d double and triple checked the rota at the start of the week to make sure he was still on for this shift in particular, and considering last week, he knows that’s also the time Louis likes to come. 

It wasn’t that he wanted the shift _because_ he knew Louis would most likely be there… it just so happened that it’s one of their busiest times in the week, and that’s when they get the most tips. The fact that it’s the same time that Louis chooses to come and study is _entirely_ a coincidence. A happy one, or an unfortunate one, depending on how you look at it. 

It’s about quarter past the hour when Louis turns up, and Harry decidedly doesn’t go up to the bar to harass him with his charm and wit. Not immediately, anyway.

Instead, Harry pops into the glass room, eyes landing on exactly what he’d been looking for.

“Nick!” he grins, catching his manager’s attention. The man looks up from where he’d been fiddling with their perpetually broken dishwasher, the quiff of hair atop his head following along with the movement as though it has a mind of its own, and the look of weary defeat on his face is immediately replaced by a suggestive smile.

“Harry,” he replies, eyes narrowing immediately because although Harry hasn’t worked at the bar long, Nick’s still known Harry for almost a year, now, and can read him like bloody book. It’s a blessing and a curse, really. “What’re you up to?”

Harry steps further in, beaming smile remaining and hands wedged in his pockets, and even _he_ knows he looks a little shifty now. “I need to ask you something.”

Nick huffs, amused suspicion lacing his features, arms coming to cross in front of his chest, “I can’t give you the day off next Friday, if that’s what you’re asking. You’ve already committed–”

“No, no, that’s not it at all,” Harry responds, waving a hand in front of his face as he says it, reassuring his boss. 

Nick still looks unsure. “Right…” he starts, leaning back against the machine, slight smirk still there like he knows Harry is up to something, “then what is it?”

“Louis Tomlinson. Came into the bar a lot last year, apparently. D’you know him?”

Nick frowns, puzzled at the what must seem like a random question. Which, Harry realises, kind of is. “Um, yeah. Think so. Does he wear glasses? Always studying?”

Harry smiles on a nod. “That’s the one, my dear friend.”

Nick barks a laugh, “Okay, Mr. Detective Inspector. What do you want to know? And why?”

Harry pauses. It’s not that he’s _embarrassed_ about needing extra help, but it’s not exactly the most glamorous thing he’s ever been involved in. Still, Nick’s one of his best mates, plus there’s no way Nick will give up any knowledge on the elusive Louis Tomlinson without some kind of reason. He’s a pain in the arse, like that.

Harry shrugs, as casually as he can, lets his eyes trace the door frame he’s leaning against as he answers the question. “Dunno, just. He’s… helping me out, with one of my modules–” 

Nick snorts, “well _that’s_ a euphemism if I’ve ever heard one,” and Harry’s gaze whips over to his grinning friend, lips parted in shock and lack of words to say in response.

He scoffs, finally forming a sound as Nick continues to giggle. “No, oh my _god,_ Nick,” Harry protests, eyes widening, tongue bitten between his teeth to stop himself from laughing and further encouraging his awful and extremely unhelpful colleague. “He’s _genuinely_ just tutoring me–”

“Riiiiight.”

“–and I just wanted to know if you knew much about him, that’s all!” Harry finishes, unsure why he’s being so defensive when there’s quite literally nothing questionable happening between them at all.

Nick sighs, shaking his head in apparent cooperation, finally. “I mean, only really ever saw him a few days a week, maybe just one, even. Quiet lad, just did his work or whatever for a few hours and then would leave, maybe have a pint every once in a while?” Nick seems bored already, but Harry knows that asking Louis anything about himself doesn’t get him anywhere, so he may as well try and get the information by other means, however tedious that may be. 

“Did you ever talk to him?” Harry asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as eager for the answer as he feels. He thinks of his and Louis’ chat in the library last session, Louis’ prickly reaction to Harry’s question. Surely a little digging couldn’t hurt. “Was he ever… I dunno, with anyone?”

“Uh, yeah, we became sort of friendly, I guess. He’s perfectly nice, sense of humour takes a little getting used to but he’s quite a funny bloke.” Harry nods, then, knowing all too well. 

He refocuses his eyes on Nick, who’s just smirking at him now, eyebrows raised in a question that Harry has no desire in hearing. “As for being with anyone…” he starts, before turning around to polish a glass, trailing off mid-sentence.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, trying to downplay how keen he is for the answer.

“Well…” Nick says, placing the cup up on the shelf before shifting the cloth to his shoulder, fingers tapping his chin in feigned deliberation. 

Harry sighs. This could be a long one. Nick loves having something over Harry like this, takes a sort of sick glee in it. Harry would hate him for it if he wasn’t one of his best friends at uni. 

“Nick, for fuck’s sake–” 

“There _was_ another guy, now that you ask,” Nick says all of a sudden, eyes bright and delighted. 

Harry tries not to react too much, _especially_ not at the male pronoun that Nick has used, lets his tone go casual and uncaring as he speaks, “oh yeah?”

“Yep,” Nick nods, “would always come and like, meet him here, I guess after class. They’d always leave together. It was quite sweet, actually, now that I remember,” Nick adds, features now relaxed and contemplative, “saw them together quite a lot. But then, I dunno…” 

Harry’s voice is quick when he asks, “what?”

Nick shrugs, an uncomfortable look on his face, “I guess they must’ve, like. Broken up? If they were together. I’m not sure, obviously. Just stopped seeing them together, all of a sudden. He’d always be alone, brooding in the corner. Gave him a few pints on the house every time I would see him, looked a bit miserable, to be honest. Never really knew him well enough to ask, though. But– yeah.”

Harry frowns. “But what? You were going to say something.”

“Alright, calm down Sherlock Holmes, bloody ‘ell,” Nick lets out an airy laugh. “Uh, was just gonna say that he seemed pretty down for a while after that. Would never really want to chat, like before. It was the end of last year; summer. So quite recent I guess.”

“Oh,” Harry says, mouth a little dry.

So Louis went through a break up, then. With a boy. Possibly. Sounds like it’s at least something similar, all the same. Harry doesn’t quite know what to say, wasn’t really thinking about what Nick would actually tell him, and how much, before he’d asked him the question. Now he feels slightly invasive, like he knows too much about Louis without his permission. He berates himself, silently, frustrated that he’d let his curiosity get the better of him.

“That’s all I know, though,” Nick’s saying, and Harry’s attention goes back to him, “and don’t you even think you’re getting away without telling me the real reason you wanted to know all this about him.”

Harry’s already half out the door to the bar when he throws over his shoulder, “Thanks, Nicholas, but I don’t know whatyou’re talking about.” 

Harry thinks he hears a scoff in response before the door swings shut, but he may have just imagined it. 

As he makes his way to his part of the bar, he glances over to the right of him. Louis’ still sitting there at the bar top, still fully engrossed in his work like he always is. He’s wearing a hoodie today, oversized, makes him look even smaller where he sits in the corner against the wall. His hair’s a little messier than usual, eyes a little puffy under his glasses, like perhaps he hadn’t gotten much rest the night before. 

Harry finds himself frowning without meaning to at the thought, starts to notice the tension in his brows after a little while, before he gets snapped out of it.

“Excuse me? Sorry, did you get that?” 

Harry blinks, then looks straight ahead, realises a girl is standing there, plump lips pulled into a pretty smile as she realises he wasn’t listening at all. 

Harry laughs it off, leaning closer and flashing her a grin before answering. “I’m afraid not, would you mind repeating it for me?”

She giggles, and Harry winks at her. It’s almost a routine, now.

“Um, just a pint of cider and a diet coke, thanks,” she replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It looks like it would be soft, he thinks absently, and the chestnut tint of it reminds him of something else. 

Harry nods and starts pouring her drinks, glancing up every second or so to see her continue to watch him, and he chuckles to himself. 

“Here you are,” he announces, placing the drinks between them. “That’s four pounds forty all together. Can I get you anything else?”

The girl flushes, slightly, as she takes a small sip of the cider. “Yeah, actually. Your number.” 

Harry lets out a single bark of laughter, impressed at her forwardness. The girl smiles back at him, as cool as anything. Harry admires it, if nothing else. 

“How about I take yours?” he says, suddenly aware that he’s definitely not being paid to flirt with customers. Not while Nick’s just a few feet away, anyway. 

“Sure,” she replies, easily, and scribbles it down on a napkin and hands it over before smiling at him once more, and then sauntering off. 

Harry looks at it, sees the name _Mollie_ written above a string of numbers, and shoves it into his pocket with absolutely no intention of using it. 

He enjoys flirting, is the thing. Is a massive flirt, really. Especially at the bar, when it’s something he can do to pass the time. Sometimes it goes too far and he gets into situations like these, though, so instead of making it weird and rejecting them on the spot, he usually just takes numbers instead, and then never really uses them. Not unless he really fancies them, which, much to the surprise of others, isn’t that often. Perhaps Harry has ridiculously high standards, or maybe he’s just a little bored of casual hookups that lead to nothing but a halfhearted text conversation the next day. Perhaps it’s both. 

To be fair, though, it’s the student bar; of course, past a certain hour, it solely consists of mainly the type of people who would just want to fuck him for an evening and that be the end of it. That was definitely what Harry treated it as, last year, anyway. He doubts anyone comes here looking for a solid relationship candidate. Harry would be the first one to tell that person that they’re barking up entirely the wrong tree. 

“Well, that was a spectacle and a half.” 

Harry can’t help the smirk that graces his lips when he hears them, words that could only belong to one person in particular. 

“Oh, Louis!” Harry simpers, strolling over to where the other boy is sitting, staring at Harry with an unreadable expression. “What a lovely surprise to see you here.”

He tries not to think about what Nick told him as he watches and waits for the inevitable reaction from the other boy. Tries to separate his version of Louis; the sarcastic, amusing, reluctant tutor Louis, from the far different version that Nick described. It’s none of his business, anyway, Harry knows. Doesn’t mean it won’t stick stubbornly at the back of his mind, though. 

Louis’ eyes widen, and his lips curl ever so slightly at Harry’s overdone enthusiasm, but he doesn’t break. “Yeah… I’m sure it is, considering I come here every week,” he says, tone dry and sardonic, “wish I could say the same to you.”

Harry doesn’t give up. “Aw, Louis,” he says, bending down to face him full on, resting his elbows in front of where Louis sits, deliberately not on a textbook page this time. He learnt his lesson last time. “Don’t be like that! I thought we were mates. Was gonna offer you a pint on the house, and everything.”

“Mates?” Louis scoffs, smiling broadly at Harry, and the juxtaposition makes him a little dizzy. “Right, okay.” He shakes his head, raising his eyebrows before his eyes go back to his page. Harry can still detect the hint of laughter in his expression. 

“Come on, how about one drink, and I agree to stop bothering you for the rest of my shift?” 

Louis sighs as his gaze moves back up to Harry, shifting his glasses a little up his nose, a ministration that Harry has come to take notice of every time it happens. “I know it may seem like a foreign concept to you, Styles, but I’m actually trying to do some work?”

Harry laughs easily, unbothered, determined to crack through the prickly exterior. He grabs a pint glass from underneath the bar. “What are you talking about? I’m working right now,” he tries to offer Louis a look of feigned ignorance as he pours out a pint of beer, but he can absolutely feel the way his cheeks are dimpling in glee at this. 

Louis rolls his eyes, a stubborn smile bit between his lips, “you know what I mean.”

“I assure you I don’t,” Harry disputes, lacking any heat in his words, as he places the now full pint of beer in front of Louis. He grins at him.

Louis looks at it like it carries some kind of disease. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“So? I’m giving it to you. You’re welcome.” 

“I don’t want it.”

Harry sighs, defeatedly, half aware of the queue of customers filing up to the left of them in front of the bar, unsure of where the fuck Niall is but knowing that it’s basically up to him now to deal with them all. He pushes himself off from the bar top, and starts to move over to where some guy is waiting before calling out to Louis, “most people would just say thank you!” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, or hear one, for that matter. 

Harry serves a few more customers after that, immersing himself in the steady flow of students coming in for an end of week pint or two. (Or sometimes nine. Harry’s had to legitimately drag someone out of here at about five o’clock in the afternoon once because they were so drunk. It was equally amusing and irritating.) 

It’s a while before he has time to glance back over at where Louis is, and that’s when he realises the boy has left. It’s not like Harry expected him to say goodbye, or anything; even according to Louis they’re not really friends. It doesn’t take away from how Harry feels a little put out, though, even so. He supposes it was fun, winding him up, chatting to him. But Harry’s being ridiculous, he’ll see Louis next week. It’s stupid, a stupid thing to get affected by.

And then that’s when Harry spots the pint glass, tucked in the corner where Louis had been, completely empty. He grows the tiniest bit smug at the sight.

Small victories, Harry tells himself, as he goes over to collect it. Small victories. 

–

Harry glances at the clock, once again. Louis’ fifteen minutes late, and frankly, Harry’s about to send out a search party to any and all study rooms slash bars across campus in order to find him as quickly as possible, just so that he can ask him why he’s making Harry wait so long just for some bloody tutoring.

As it happens, Harry doesn’t have to, because a moment later, the sound of a bag being dropped heavily on the desk snaps him out of his boredom-induced daze, and he glances up to see Louis has appeared, finally, slightly out of breath and sweaty, oddly.

“Hi..?” Harry half asks, at the frazzled Louis, who’s currently unpacking his books and papers at what Harry can confidently say is close to the speed of light. 

Louis’ eyes shoot down at him, wide and alarmed. “Hi, how’s it going,” he says, all in a rush, worded not even like a question, before quickly slumping down in his seat. He looks tired again, Harry notices, and a little all over the place. He’s not even wearing his glasses.

“So… is there a reason you made me wait fifteen torturous minutes?” Harry asks, words lacking half the bite that he had planned. 

Louis’ head whips towards him, “Wha–?” before his eyes snap up to the clock that Harry has become all too familiar with in the last quarter of an hour. “Shit,” Louis mutters under his breath, “the clock in the rehearsal studio must be slow. How the hell did I not notice that? Fuck’s sa–”

Harry blinks, processing the words. “Wait, what? Rehear–”

“Come on, hurry up and get your reading out, we’re already wasting time as it is,” Louis says brusquely, voice high and shaky, but Harry doesn’t miss the way his cheeks slightly flush. 

Oh, now _this_ is interesting.

“Hold on, Louis, and just, like, I dunno. Breathe, maybe,” Harry says, tone hard for a second.

Louis fixes him with an unimpressed look, but does exactly that, and he immediately seems to relax; buzzing, palpable energy fading a little. 

“Secondly…” Harry starts, turning himself to fully face Louis. “Rehearsal, you said? For what exactly?” he asks sweetly, chin in his hand as he watches Louis, this topic far more appealing than Determinism. 

Louis’ brows furrow next to him, and he sighs as he stays organising some highlighters he’d chucked out of his bag at random.

“It’s nothing, Styles, and has nothing to do with your education or tutoring, and so therefore has no place here while we’re supposed to be discussing ethics, now–”

Harry shakes his head, “no no no,” he crows, eyes shining, delighted, “there’s no way you’re getting away that easily. Rehearsal for what?” he asks, genuinely curious, grasping at a new tidbit of Louis’ life that he’s yet to know about. Even if he did let it slip by mistake, that was Louis’ fault, and now Harry really wants to know.

Louis sighs, pushing his hair back in limited frustration, before turning slightly towards Harry. “If you _must_ know, and because I know I won’t hear the end of it if I don’t tell you–”

“That is true, yeah.”

“–I was at rehearsals for a play.” He says it simply, factually, but he doesn’t look Harry in the eye. 

Harry sits back in his chair. He’s surprised, he supposes. He didn’t really expect that. Maybe thought he was a public speaker, practicing for a debate, or something.

“Oh.”

Louis tenses up next to him, his voice a flat whisper. “You can keep your degrading comments to yourself, Styles. I can promise you I won’t be listening to them, anyway.”

“No!” Harry replies, too loud for their surroundings. “No, I mean that just wasn’t what I was expecting,” he continues, quieter now, eyes locked on Louis’ profile. “I just. Can’t believe you had the audacity to call _me_ a drama queen when– I mean, I didn’t even know you liked acting.” 

Louis chuckles, then, eyes finally finding Harry’s. “I don’t.”

Harry frowns, confused. Did he not just say he was rehearsing for a play? Is Harry going insane?

“Directing,” Louis offers him, then, with a small smile, probably at Harry’s naïvete. “I’m directing it,” Louis explains, features going taught for a moment, “it was our last dress rehearsal today, and it overran, obviously. We’ve been working on it for a while, and everyone’s a little stressed out, as you can probably tell, so if you could help make this next hour and a half the least stressful as possible, that would be bloody wonderful.”

Harry goes slack-jawed. This is so much information to process in such a short time period. This probably explains his apparent exhaustion that Harry had noticed. And Louis likes drama. He likes directing. Does he want to do that when he leaves university? The last dress rehearsal… meaning the play is soon. But when? So many questions.

“If you like theatre so much, then why are you reading Philosophy and Ethics? Why not Drama?” is the one Harry goes with, the first thing that comes out of his mouth. 

Louis looks at him a moment, expression blank, guarded. “It’s not that simple.”

“I’m sure you could switch courses, my mate did it last year, you just have to go through the administration offi–”

“That’s _enough,_ Styles,” Louis warns, all of a sudden, tone hardened. He isn’t looking at Harry anymore. “It’s none of your business, anyway. Again.” Harry blinks at him, unaware of where he overstepped this time. He was only trying to help, but it seems to have done the opposite. “This is–” Louis starts, shaking his head as he busies himself with the sheets laid out in front of them, pages that Harry hasn’t even spared a glance at yet. ”It’s stupid, that we’re talking about anything other than Ethics right now, so like. Let’s just, just talk about Theological Determinism. Okay?”

Just like that, it’s like a door’s been shut and locked in Harry’s face, access to a part of Louis that isn’t class-related closed off from him once again. He keeps most parts of himself close to his chest, Harry has noticed. Guards them firmly, tightly. That much is clear. 

Harry would just like to know why.

It’s not long before they’ve whizzed through the topic, no room for playing or winding Louis up, half because Harry’s aware of the lack of time they have, and half because he’s sort of scared to. Through the next hour and a half, Louis stays stoic and calm, only ever speaking to explain something to Harry, otherwise just letting Harry outline the basics of the theory to him.

It’s a good technique for learning, Harry’s realised, despite how frustrating it was at the start, and before long the session is over and he feels a lot more reassured about Martin Luther’s ideas, however backward they may seem to Harry. 

Louis barely says goodbye before he jets off as quick as he arrived, probably something to do with the play, Harry thinks absently. Perhaps it was what Harry had said earlier, too, that caused Louis to remain rather cold for the remainder of the session. 

Harry knows he can’t spend his time worrying about it, he tells himself so, as he packs up his things in a much less rushed and much more dignified manner. Knows that whatever it is, Louis’ll probably be fine by the next session. Probably. 

He can’t help but feel a little bad, though, like he hit a particularly sensitive nerve without realising. Feels like he keeps doing that kind of thing. Sort of wants to make sure that he didn’t mean to piss him off, not this time, anyway. 

As Harry walks out of the library, weather cloudy and chilly and sort of representative of Harry’s mood, he gets an idea. 

He gets his phone out, and finds the number almost immediately. 

“Liam, hey,” Harry chirps into the speaker after his roommate picks up on the first ring, mind whirring. “How do you feel about going to see a play…”

–

The play, a performance of _The Taming of the Shrew_ , by Shakespeare, is outstanding. Of course it is.

The deafening applause that sounds as the final curtain goes down and the lights come up are proof of that, not that Harry needed any more. Harry can see almost everyone in the theatre from where him and Liam are sitting, which was fully his choice to be this high up and not because they were the only tickets left. Harry hadn’t realised the play had been quite so eagerly awaited, and when Louis had come from the last dress rehearsal that time in the library, Harry hadn’t realised that that had meant the play was to first be performed the very next day.

The tickets they got were for the third and final night’s performance, which was fine by Harry. It had taken him about five minutes of facebook group sleuthing to find the Manchester University Drama Club’s page, and on it a link to reserve tickets to their upcoming play. He thought the only difficult thing would be getting Liam to come along with him. Oh, how he was wrong.

“Oh my god, I just saw him, H, he’s down at the front! I knew he’d be here,” Liam almost gushes, going on about the same guy from his English Literature module that he’d been pining over for about a year. Turns out, according to Liam, this guy, Zayn - even the name is mysterious - is good friends with Louis; information which Harry decidedly did not question Liam’s source of. 

Harry laughs distractedly, scanning the room to find a certain director. “Just go say hello to him, Li,” he says, casually enough that he knows Liam’ll just groan at him for saying it.

“I _can’t,”_ he protests, as people start to shift around them, some making their way down while others move towards the exits, and Harry’s not even looking at Liam but he already knows the blush is forming, “the last time I tried to talk to him I embarrassed myself beyond belief. It’s a tragedy worse than even the old bard could write, really–”

“Telling him you like the jacket he’s wearing isn’t embarrassing yourself, Liam,” Harry tells him, false-sternly, eyes still on the crowd below them, and he tucks his lip between his teeth to keep himself from laughing.

He feels Liam’s glare on the side of his face, “It is if he wasn’t even _wearing_ a bloody jacket that day, Harry. Honestly.”

Harry lets out a breath and a laugh in one go, unable to hold in it, much to Liam’s displeasure. “Hey, no, I’m sorry, it’s not that bad, I promise,” he tells his mate, who currently resembles a cross between a grumpy puppy and an angry teddy bear. Harry tries to feel intimidated, he really does. “Look, why don’t we go down and I’ll go with you. There’s someone I want to see anyway.”

“Yes, we know, the whole reason you dragged me here–”

Harry balks, “I did _not_ drag you. You came willingly and rather eagerly, even.”

“Fine,” Liam mumbles, as they file out of the row and make their way to the stairs, “anyway, hopefully they’re together, because if you leave me to go off on your ethics escapade, I will actually run away instead of facing the chance of accidentally bumping into Zayn on my own.”

 _“Ethics escap–_?” Harry cuts himself off, as he stares at the room ahead of him, Liam not far behind, “You sure you shouldn’t have taken up acting yourself, you little drama queen?”

Is it possible that Louis is rubbing off on him? Surely not. Although, now that Harry thinks about it, he doesn’t really mind the thought. 

Liam shuffles up next to him, eyes crinkled in a small smile, “shut up,” he says, voice full of affection, and he playfully hits Harry’s arm with the back of his hand.

The crowd has thinned out, now, and it’s easy to get to the front of the theatre. It’s not long before Harry spots a familiar face.

“Louis!” he calls giddily, eager to see his reaction, as he moves past an older gentleman, probably a member of the faculty. 

Louis’ head whips around from whoever he’d been talking to - who by the sounds of the squeak that came from Liam next to him, and Harry’s slight social media stalking, is probably Zayn - and his eyes widen in shock almost immediately, before narrowing in inevitable suspicion. 

Harry finds himself in front of the other boy, and he grins at him. “That was a great show, by the way. We loved it,” Harry announces, gesturing to Liam next to him, who seems to have gone mute in the three seconds that it took them to step over here.

“I’m Harry, by the way, Louis’ friend,” Harry adds, directing it at Zayn, who nods stiffly in return, eyes flickering to the right of Harry every couple of seconds. Interesting. 

“Um, what are you doing here,” Harry hears Louis say, but his eyes are still on Zayn, whose aren’t on him, and he’s acutely aware of Liam next to him, silently willing him to say something.

“And you must know my friend Liam, Zayn right?” Harry offers, because for God’s sake, if Liam won’t say anything then someone’s got to. “Think you two have a class together?”

Zayn nods, silently, before Louis glances over, and suddenly he seems to find his words, “Yeah, yeah,” he says, voice all smoke and velvet, and Harry thinks that it’s no wonder Liam loves hearing him read poetry every seminar. “English Lit, right?”

“Right,” Liam responds, _finally,_ Harry thinks, “yeah, um. Hey.” 

“Hi,” Zayn smiles, and it instantly reaches his eyes. Harry can, objectively, understand Liam’s attraction. “Nice to see you, like. Outside of class.”

“Yeah,” Liam squeaks, immediately having to gulp in some air so he doesn’t pass out. That’s Harry’s diagnosis anyway, “yeah, yeah yeah. Really nice.”

There’s a pause, and the hum of people chattering around their circle is the only sound.

God, Harry thinks. This is almost as excruciating as studying Natural Law. 

Harry finally readjusts his gaze across the group and over to Louis, who’s fixing him with a painful expression, indicative of how Harry feels about the situation in front of them. Harry shrugs slightly across at Louis, before the other boy sighs, and directs his attention to Liam and Zayn, who seem to just be smiling at each other without saying anything. It’s weird.

“Guys, uh, d’you mind if I just grab Harry for a sec? Need to talk to him about, um. Ethics. Stuff.” The excuse to give them some privacy that Louis offers is almost as bad as the initial meeting not five minutes ago, but it seems to somehow work as they get a vague nod from both boys. 

Louis nods his head to the side, subtly, hinting at Harry to follow, and he’s hoping it’s in the direction of the bar because it’s already ten o’clock on a Saturday night and he’s absolutely stone cold sober. 

“So, um, what did you think of that part nine of Paradise Lost, Liam? Personally…” is what Harry hears as the both of them trail off, and he’s glad that they seem to be actually starting a conversation, despite how utterly dull it sounds.

They make it a few paces out into the foyer before Harry lets himself speak. “Well, now I definitely know why you chose off-stage instead of on it,” he remarks, offhandedly, spotting a table of plastic cups of wine. He grabs two, hands one absently to Louis before taking a tentative sip of his own. It’s no jager bomb, but it’ll have to do for now. “That excuse was terrible; you’re lucky they were so distracted by the sight of each other that they didn’t stop long enough to actually _hear–_ what?”

Harry’s looked up from his inspection of the no doubt cheap - and now half empty - glass of wine, to see Louis grinning at him. This has never happened before, and it’s a little unnerving.

“How did you do that,” he says, and it’s less of a question and more of a sigh of relief, uttered quietly between them, awe lacing his words. 

Harry’s confused. “Do what?”

Louis scoffs, bright smile still present. He looks lovely, like this, Harry notes. Truly lovely. Harry wants to make him smile more like this. 

“I’ve literally been trying to get Zayn to grow the balls to talk to, to Liam, I guess, for bloody _ages,”_ he breathes, on a laugh, “and you just… you just– made it happen! Just like that! And now they’re actually having a conversation, instead of, I dunno, staring at each other wantonly from across the lecture theatre, or whatever it is that happens in those English Literature seminars.”

“What?!” Harry says, feels himself bursting with delight with the more words Louis says, utterly pleased at this new information. “I had no idea it was mutual, and they just had been, like, _stupid_ about it, I just thought Liam was this poor little romantic soul that needed to talk to his crush to get over it.”

Louis barks a laugh then, loud and abrasive in the small room of people, “Ha! As _if,_ Zayn hasn’t stopped talking about the pouty boy from English for who knows how long,” Louis tells him, obviously just as pleased. “I didn’t realise you knew him.”

Harry nods, still smiling softly, happy for his friend. “He was my roommate first year. Now he’s my best mate. And he’s been going on about Zayn for probably even longer.” 

Louis nods, eyes going to the glass in his hand. “When did I…? Did you hand me this?” he asks, gesturing to the wine he’s holding. 

“Yeah,” Harry chuckles, as he takes another sip of his own. “It’s bad, don’t drink it.” 

Louis’ brows furrow, slightly, lips still lifted. “Right,” he says, unconvinced. “So, why were you here in the first place? Surely you can’t have known for sure that Zayn was coming when you decided on tonight...?”

“Oh, well, yeah. About that,” Harry utters, throat gone thick suddenly, as he tries to articulate the words correctly. “I actually, um,” he stops, thinks for a moment before speaking again. “I came to see your play, obviously,” he clears his throat, wondering why this is so hard, “very good, by the way,” he flashes a tentative looking Louis a nervous smile. “And also, I came to– to apologise to you,” he looks Louis in the eye when he says it, wanting to show him how sincere he is, “I’m sorry for the other day. I didn’t mean to overstep with what I said, and make you upset, or–”

“You didn’t,” Louis cuts in, hastily, almost desperately. “Upset me, I mean. But thank you, for the apology,” he looks as sincere as Harry feels when he says it, eyes open and deep blue, and surely that must count for something. Harry nods then, unsure of whether this means the conversation is over. He’s just about to turn away when he hears something. “Harry. Thank you for the apology, _Harry._ ” Louis adds, and Harry feels his stomach jump, breath stutter and spine tingle at the simple word leaving Louis’ lips. 

It’s the first time Louis’ actually said his name. 

Harry’s positive he would remember how it sounded as it left his mouth, otherwise, all soft and hard-edged at the same time, Louis’ Northern timbre licking eagerly around the curvature of the letters. He wants to hear him say it again and again.

Harry positively beams, and points at Louis. “You just said my name!”

“I know. I was there,” Louis replies tiredly, smiling at him nonetheless. 

Harry cackles, giddy with Liam and Zayn and now Louis actually calling him by something other than his last name. He didn’t exactly hate it, but it was starting to feel like they were at some posh all-boys boarding school. 

“This is _wonderful,”_ Harry says, grinning across at Louis.

Louis makes a face, one eyebrow raised. “Alright, bloody hell, don’t get too ahead of yourself, love.” 

Harry bites his lip to stop himself from saying something stupid, like how this is the best night of his life, or something equally as exaggerative. 

He’s saved from himself when he sees Liam come out from seemingly nowhere, Zayn not far behind him, both waving to get his and Louis’ attention. 

The look on Liam’s face is priceless, exhibiting even more elation than usual, and Harry can’t help but think that his and Zayn’s little chat went well. 

“Guys!” Liam exclaims, enthusiasm evident in just the one word, “You two coming to the after party? Zayn says it’s not far from ours, H!”

Harry looks over at Louis, whose lips are slightly parted, about to say something. “Well, actually,” he starts, lifting a finger, “I hadn’t quite extended the invitation–“

“Sounds great lads!” Harry interrupts, teeth bared in what he’s pretty aware is a cheeky grin, directed at Louis who looks just a touch more unimpressed than usual. 

“Perfect, we’ll meet you guys there,” Liam chirps, disappearing into the crowd, not before snaking a hand around Zayn’s waist that Harry _definitely_ catches, and oh he cannot _wait_ until tomorrow morning when he gets to hear all about this recent development. 

He turns to Louis after watching them leave. “Sweet, aren’t they?”

Louis ignores him, fingers brushing needlessly through his hair that’s already out of his face. “You know usually when you go to a party, you’re invited first.”

Harry doesn’t even flinch at the comment, already moving towards the door, and Louis follows him. “Oh, you see, that’s the beauty of being friends with the _director–”_

“I literally never once said we were friends.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees loftily, unbothered. “Whatever. Let’s go crash a party.”

“You’ll be the one crashing. I’m co-hosting, there’s a big difference, actual–“

Harry laughs, as they leave the theatre. God, he always needs the last word, Louis. It equally frustrates and captivates Harry. He can’t get enough of it. 

“Alright, alright,” Harry concedes, heading in the direction of his halls, knowing the party must be somewhere near there. He looks over when he doesn’t hear any footsteps next to him, and sees Louis stood by the doors, watching him with an odd look on his face. Harry can’t quite decipher it. “You coming or what?”

Louis blinks, eyes focusing on Harry where they’d gone a glassy blue, just for a second. “Uh, yeah, obviously,” he gets out, voice a little thin. “How else will you get in, after all.”

Harry cheers, as Louis steps towards him, “that’s the spirit!” 

Louis remains passive in his response, as they walk to the party under the thin sliver of moonlight that the city’s gloom has granted them. But, when Harry looks across at his profile, he doesn’t miss the way the other boy’s mouth curls slightly at the corners the entire way there. 

–

Harry is extremely drunk. 

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t trying to reach this level of inebriation. To be fair to himself, he’s had a long week, full of classes and picking up Niall’s shifts at work, for god knows what reason, he’s sort of a little afraid to ask, plus the tutoring. 

So he can’t be blamed for wanting to let a little loose, especially when the booze are free, and not terrible, at the semi-fancy after party that he followed Louis into, possibly about an hour or two ago, but Harry’s not really in the state to exhibit any accuracy at all. 

First there was the tequila shots that greeted them at the door to the edgy looking bar in the Northern Quarter, which Louis had swiftly declined before disappearing off somewhere, and so Harry took it upon himself to have his own and Louis’ shot, of course. 

And then there was the questionable punch that someone had handed him in a plastic cup, which tasted mostly sugary and fruity despite the amount of alcohol he was assured was in it. 

And then after that it gets a bit blurry, but all Harry knows is that right now he’s holding some kind of cocktail in his left hand, a cup of beer in the other, and he’s completely lost count of the amount of drinks he’s had at this point. He feels light, and happy, floating through the party meeting new people - he has no idea _where_ Zayn and Liam have disappeared to - and just generally having a great time. Alcohol is good. Really good. 

He’s sipping from one of his drinks, unsure which, as he makes his way towards where the glass doors at the back of the bar open up to a smoking area, when he sees a familiar head of bleached hair that even in his drunk state, Harry knows looks a little out of place. 

“Niall?” Harry shouts across the room, voice booming and unrestricted as he seems to have lost control on the volume aspect of it. 

Sure enough, Niall spins around, scanning until he finds the source of the sound. “Harry!” he calls back, leaving behind the circle of people he’d been chatting to to walk over to him, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the, uh, the same question, mate!” Harry replies, focusing hard on getting the words out in the right order. Sometimes alcohol is bad. 

Niall cackles at him, seemingly much more sober than Harry although Harry knows he could’ve easily had double the drinks Harry has. Damn him and his Irish liver. “Well, I mean. I live here.” 

Harry frowns. Too confusing for his mushy brain. “This is… you live in a bar? But you– you do Engineering?”

It doesn’t really make sense coming out of his mouth, but it’s all Harry can come up with in the moment. 

“Well, I live above it,” Niall explains, and then squints at him, “and what are ya talkin’ about, Harry?” he asks, still laughing. 

Harry blinks, tries to figure this out. “No, I mean. How come you’re hosting the party for like, Drama people. You definitely weren’t in the play, either, I would know… because I saw it earlier. I think.”

“Oh, I see,” Niall nods then, amusement at Harry’s state evident on his face, “no, I’m not hosting. My flatmate is, though. She was stage manager I think?” 

Suddenly it makes sense. “Ohhhhhhh,” Harry’s drunk brain catches up, “that makes sense.”

Niall chuckles, “Yeah?” he asks, patting Harry on the shoulder, “good. S’nice to see you, mate. How come you went to see the play? Didn’t really peg you as a theatre buff at all.”

“Oh, that’s,” Harry starts, feeling a little dizzy. “Kind of a long story, one that I’m not in the right state to explain right now, I don’t think.”

Niall grins, “alright, alright. Enjoy yourself, then.” 

Harry gives him a sloppy smile, eyes drooping as he nods at him languidly, “you too Nialler.”

“Hey, by the way, your favourite person is here,” Niall adds, a tad sardonic and playful, just as Harry’s about to pass him. 

Harry glances back, brows knitted. He’s not sober enough to decipher what Niall means. “Who?”

Niall grins at him. “Louis, obviously. Think he’s in there, actually,” he gestures to the terrace crowded with people, “better watch out…”

Harry had wondered where he’d gotten to. He glances outside, before smiling back at Niall. _“Is_ he now?”

Niall shakes his head, lips stretched into a mischievous smile, calling back over his shoulder before wandering off, “don’t harass him too much, H!”

Harry smirks to himself as he stumbles through the extremely tricky glass doors - honestly, they’re potentially lethal - before searching for a familiar lithe figure amongst the crowd. 

He spots him rather fast, impressing himself, even. He’s talking to someone, gesticulating wildly with his hands, passion evident in his animated facial expression. Harry can’t quite hear him from his vantage point, but it’s fascinating to watch. He looks… radiant, like this. Sharp height of his cheekbones and smooth slope of his nose lit up by the twinkly fairy lights that have been strung up above them. He seems relaxed, the stress of the play behind him no doubt the reason behind that. The easy smile on his face and loose set of his shoulders is a welcome sight. Harry would study him for ages, if he could. 

He doesn’t realise how much he’s staring until Louis glances right at him, after a little while. Harry knows he should feel caught out, or embarrassed, or something. But he’s not. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or just the sight of him alone. 

Instead he gives Louis a slow, small, close lipped smile, no trace of anything but sincerity, from where he stands. It just happens, appears upon Harry’s lips before he realises. 

Louis holds his gaze for a moment, which is good, because Harry doesn’t think he can look away, and for a second, he forgets where they are. It’s only when Louis actually smiles back, tiny and barely there, but lacking any reluctance at all, that Harry is brought back to the present. 

He’s about to walk over, to say something, he doesn’t know what, when someone stops him. 

“Hey, Harry!”

He looks over, tearing his gaze away, and sees some girl, has to attempt a couple of times to focus his eyes to figure out who she is. 

“Oh!” Harry says, going in for a hug and wondering how he didn’t immediately recognise her, “Mads! How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Maddie, a girl who lived on his floor first year, looks excited as anything, and Harry guesses she’s probably had as much to drink as him. She holds onto his arms as they part, shaking them a little as she replies, “I’m fab! Miss you though! So great to see you, how is everything?”

He forgot how enthusiastic she was, words always quick and high-pitched, and he chuckles to himself. “I’m so great, I’m working down at the student bar, actually, you should come hang out sometime. You still with that girl? What was it…”

“Ellie! Yes!” she chimes, smile wide and cheeks flushing. Harry always liked her, has missed her too. 

“Yeah, you should bring her. That’s so good to hear, by the way, Mads.”

Maddie’s tucks her bottom lip into her teeth as she averts her eyes, face pink as anything, now. “Thanks, Harry. We actually live together this year! We’re so happy,” she replies, looking exactly it. Harry smiles at her. He loves love. “How about you, though? Any girl or boy able to tie you down yet?”

Harry starts at the choice of words, unsure how to respond. “Ha. Well,” he starts, laughing a little ruefully at her perception, “no, not yet, actually. I mean–” he stops, unsure where he was going. 

“You mean…” Maddie coaxes, leaning closer to him. 

Harry looks away, aware of the heat that’s now materialised on his cheeks. “No, nothing.”

She gasps, “you like someone, don’t you?! Oh how exciting!” It’s all giddy and hyper, and now he understands why they got along so well; she’s literally the female version of Liam. 

Harry opens his mouth, ready to protest, until something stops him. “Um, I guess… I’m not really sure. Maybe.” he tells her, glancing over at the newly vacant space next to them. “I– I think I might.”

“You doooooo,” she sings, grinning from ear to ear, reducing Harry to feeling like a shy little boy with a crush, even in this state. 

He pushes her away half-heartedly, raking the other hand though his hair, flipping his fringe out of his eyes. “Alright, alright, don’t go announcing it to the world.”

“Cross my heart hope to die, this is strictly confidential info, dear Harold,” she tells him, and he knows her well enough to know she’s actually being serious, despite the playful words. 

He bites his lip, suddenly aware of what he’s said. What he’s just admitted in his drunken state. It feels right, though, when he thinks about it. Really right. 

He sighs to himself, smiling. He can deal with this better in the morning. Probably best to find where Liam’s got to right about now. “Okay, well, I better go find my mate. He’s disappeared off somewhere with... someone.”

Her eyes positively light up. “Ooh, sounds naughty. I _love_ it.” 

“Of course you bloody would,” Harry cackles, shaking his head at her. 

“Oh shush,” she berates, before making to turn away. “Oh,” she adds, throwing it over her shoulder, “and good luck with that boy!”

Harry’s brow knits. “How did–?”

“Saw you looking over,” she simpers, sly grin on her lips as she turns around and backs away, “you’re not very subtle, Styles.”

Harry watches her walk away, a little speechless. That can be another problem for tomorrow’s Harry. 

Right now, it’s time to go find - and interrogate - a certain roommate… 

–

_**library shut . come to mine instead , we can study here . bring your textbook and don’t be late . see you at 10** _

Harry groans when he sees the text the next morning. He’d completely forgotten they’d scheduled a session for a bloody _Sunday_. This is actual child cruelty… even though Harry is twenty years of age, and he had agreed to it. 

He rubs his eyes as he gives the pounding headache a moment to settle. _Fuck,_ he thinks. Why did he drink so _much_ last night?

**I don’t even know where you live.**

**Also, could we make it half past? I just woke up :(**

Harry glances at the time on his phone. _09:37,_ it reads. There’s just absolutely no way he can get his delicate body up and ready and leaving the flat in less than half an hour. 

_**i put my address in your phone when we exchanged numbers . because obviously i think ahead** _

**_be here by quarter past at the latest !_ **

Harry whimpers. Absolutely no sympathy at all. This is half his fault, he is aware, but he’s choosing to blame Louis. 

**You’re a slave driver, Louis Tomlinson.**

**_ha . see ya in a bit , drama queen_ **

Harry chuckles when he reads the last text. Okay, maybe he can find the strength to drag himself out of bed. It’s nothing that a little coffee and cold shower can’t help. 

–

When Harry gets to the address Louis sent him, he’s surprised to see it’s the same place they were last night. 

It’s a little odd, seeing the bar during the day, doors closed shut and blinds down, rather lacking the glamour it seemed to radiate the night before. Harry glances up at the red-brick building, sees the windows and fire escapes at the side that must mean there are flats above the ground floor, sights that weren’t so obvious in the darkness of last night. 

There’s a door on the corner of the building, a little off to the left of the bar’s shuttered entrance, that Harry assumes by the buzzers on the wall is the entrance to the flats. Harry moves towards it, hand about to press on the number Louis had given him, when, as if on cue, the door opens from the inside and Harry glances up in time to catch a familiar face. 

“Niall.” It’s less enthusiastic than Harry would sound usually, but the ringing in his head has yet to subside, so he can only do mid-volume at best. It’s possibly due to his early morning, recovering brain that he doesn’t question _why_ he’s bumped into Niall right here on the pavement, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out soon enough.

Niall’s head whips round at breakneck speeds, the sight at such a movement alone causing Harry to wince. 

“Harold! What the devil are you doing out of bed this early? Thought you’d be holed up all day and I’d have to tell Nick you were violently ill from some dodgy sushi again to cover for your shift.” 

Niall’s words are even brighter than his expression, completely and utterly fresh-faced and energetic for someone who drank at least as much, if not more than Harry last night. And, oh god, yes, his shift later today. Why oh _why_ does Harry ever agree to commitments on a Sunday? They all just seem to cause regret and frustration at his past sober self. 

“The jury’s still out on that one, Nialler,” Harry sighs, shivering in the cold of the near-Winter morning. He strives for haughty and aloof at his next words, “And I’m actually here for a very pressing matter, quite important really.” 

Niall grins, as he turns to face fully towards him, mischief written all over his face. “You’re here to see Louis, aren’t you?” 

Harry’s shoulders droop, and he frowns. He thought he was being rather mysterious. “How did–?”

Niall barks a laugh, fixing Harry with a pitying gaze, lips curled up in obvious amusement at Harry’s confusion. “D’you really not remember?”

“Remember wha– _Oh…”_ It comes back to him as he says it; Niall telling him last night that he lived here, above the bar. What he conveniently forgot to mention, this _entire_ time, possibly on purpose, was that him and Louis were neighbours. Funny, that.

“You never told me you lived in the same building as Louis!” Harry says, exasperation clear in his voice.

Niall frowns slightly, and shrugs, attempt at ignorance painfully transparent through the smug smirk on his face. “Didn’t think it was something I needed to mention, really. Didn’t think you would really care. Unless...” 

Harry balks at the implication, skin gone hot in the frigid temperature. “I don’t,” he says, crossing his arms as he tries to convince the two of them. God damn Niall and his intelligent mind games, always catching Harry out before he realises what’s happening.

“Sure you don’t, mate,” Niall chuckles, shouldering past Harry through the doorway, “see ya later!” And then he’s gone. 

Harry frowns to himself as he slowly ascends the rickety stairs, trying to tamp down the blush he can feel forming on his cheeks with each step. 

He… he doesn’t _care_ that Niall didn’t tell him that he was Louis’ neighbour. It would have just been nice to know, for. Reasons. Convenient, even. Niall had of course seemed familiar with Louis when Harry had told him who would be tutoring him, but he hadn’t thought it was this close to home. Literally. 

Harry hadn’t thought anything of it, too busy lamenting the loss of his afternoons to sessions on Kant and the Categorical Imperative. He should have taken Niall’s lit up expression at the time as suspicious rather than encouraging. 

Okay. So maybe Harry cares a _little_ bit. It’s just tempting, now, to ask Niall about Louis; whether they hang out some evenings, what he’s like out of a studying environment, in social settings - something that Harry’s only experienced once as of last night. He’s interested in Louis, is the thing. That much is clear. The intrigue in and unrelenting attraction towards him mingling together to form this desire to know more and more about the other boy.

It’s then that Harry finds himself situated outside what he’s almost sure is the right flat. He knocks once, on the nondescript blue door, paint peeling slightly under his knuckles. 

It’s a moment before he hears a hard to place, gruff call from the inside, “Coming!” before the dull sound of something heavy falling and possibly breaking on the floor. “Shit,” he then hears, and he can’t help but giggle. “Just one second!”

It’s another moment before the sound of footsteps appear on the other side of the door, before it’s pulled open abruptly. 

“Sorry about that,” Zayn, of all people, says, and when Harry studies him after a second, he notices the other boy’s slightly laboured breaths, and a smudge of dirt just above one of his knitted brows. This morning seems to just be getting weirder. 

“Does _everyone_ just live in this building?” Harry asks, incredulity colouring his tone. “Also, hey, man. Nice to see you.”

Zayn chuckles, worried furrow in his brow smoothing out. “You too, Harry. Come on in, Louis’ room is the first on the left as you go down the corridor, I’ll show you.”

He opens the door fully, lets Harry walk in. So, he must be Louis’ flatmate, then, which would make sense. How he wasn’t aware of this before, he doesn’t know.

Harry lets his eyes wander the small flat, pretty similar in layout to his own. He gets to the kitchen area when his gaze snags on something rather out of the ordinary. 

“So,” Harry starts, biting down a smile as he looks over at Zayn, trying not to let the amusement in his tone shine through too much, “everything… okay?”

Zayn stands there next to him, hands behind his back looking entirely guilty. “Hm?”

Harry directs his gaze towards the kitchen floor, and then back at Zayn, eyebrows raised. 

Zayn frowns and then his eyes flash over, at what Harry knows is the sloppily swept up, what _looks_ like dirt on the tiles, before he curses silently under his breath. “You weren’t supposed to see that!” he rushes out, darting towards the mess that just starts behind the counter on the floor, Harry hasn’t had a full look yet. 

When Harry peeks over to see the full carnage, he positively cackles. _“Mate!”_ he berates, slightly breathless, “what the hell did you _do?”_

In his hands, Zayn holds what looks like the remnants of a rather large plant pot, plus the pitiful remains of whatever it held, leaves and stems a tangled mess and unrecognisable in amongst everything else. It looks like it had been dropped from a great height, soil present on every part of the kitchen floor, bits of broken ceramic buried in it. He can only imagine how this happened. 

Zayn shushes him, but even the corner of his lips are all quirked up, no matter his attempts to look stern. “I was just trying to do some redecorating. Move it from the windowsill to next to the sofa,” he explains, words heavy like he still can’t process the mess he’s made, “It didn’t quite survive the trip.”

Harry barks a laugh, Zayn’s defeated mumble too much for him. “Yeah! Can see that!” 

Zayn laughs along with him, quietly, as he attempts to finish cleaning it up. His voice is hushed when he speaks. “Shh, keep your voice down. And don’t tell Louis, this was his favourite plant, and now I need to go and make a quick trip to the garden centre before he realises what I’ve done to Patricia.”

 _“Patricia?”_ Harry asks, disbelief and utter amusement clear in his tone. Does he even want to know? “You named the plant?”

 _“Louis_ named the plant. I just help with the maintenance, and all that. Which I guess I’m not so good at…”

It’s rather endearing to think about, Louis picking a name for his greenery. It’s silly and sweet and so unlike the Louis Harry has gotten to know so far, which just means he loves the fact even more. 

Harry hums at the thought, eyes glazing over for a moment. “That’s kind of adorable.”

He hadn’t really meant to say it out loud, and the quizzical smile Zayn directs at him is enough to kick his brain back into gear. He clears his throat, straightening up where he stands just next to the crouched down boy next to him. 

“So, anyway,” and Harry grins, delight in his tone, wiggling his eyebrows at him, “Liam, then, eh?”

It’s Zayn’s turn to shift about uncomfortably, eyes widening just slightly and tips of his cheekbones flushing a hint of red. “Uh. I’m gonna, um,” he stutters out, getting up to his feet swiftly, once the majority of the mess is in the bin. “Gonna go buy a plant.”

Harry chuckles, watches as the boy makes a beeline for the door. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you sneaking out this morning, Malik!” he half-yells across the room to Zayn’s retreating back. This is too easy. 

Zayn makes a face over his shoulder, smiling guiltily before opening the door. “Fuck off. See you later.” 

The slam of the door and Harry’s laughter is the only sound in the room, then, and after a moment Harry regretfully realises he’s probably way later than he intended to be for his session with Louis. 

He makes his way down the corridor like Zayn described, stopping at the first door on the left he sees. It’s slightly ajar, but he knocks anyway. 

“Come in,” he hears, softly from inside the door, and Harry opens it to see Louis sitting at his desk, scribbling away in a notebook intensely. 

He’s wearing his glasses again, today; Harry hadn’t realised he’d missed them. The sunlight from the window behind Louis outlines him like a small silhouette, just about catching on his features delicately. The thick fan of his eyelashes are visible from where Harry’s still standing in the doorway, and Harry doesn’t think his fascination with them will ever relent. Louis’ brow is taught, just slightly in concentration, the very tip of his pink tongue bitten between his teeth. It makes Harry’s chest tighten, a little, the sight of it. He welcomes the feeling. 

As he stands there, Harry can’t help but think about how much he’d rather study Louis for the hour than any bloody Philosophical theory. 

He remembers, then, with sudden clarity, the conversation he had with Maddie last night. Remembers what he told her, what he admitted. He remembers what he had said, again, as he watches Louis, thinks about how he was reluctant to say for sure if that was how he felt. 

How he feels. 

Right now, Harry can admit to himself, as he stands here taking in the sight of this boy, that’s it’s definitely less of a question of whether or not anymore. 

“You gonna stand there like a weirdo all day or are you actually gonna come inside?”

Louis doesn’t even look up from the page when he says it, pen still working quickly as he doesn’t miss a single beat. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, at once entirely aware that his behaviour must’ve seemed extremely odd. He feels his cheeks flush, as he forces a little smile, slightly embarrassed, before stepping tentatively inside. 

“The second one, I think.” 

–

It’s about half an hour in when Louis brings it up. 

“So, that girl you were with last night,” he starts, and Harry’s eyes absolutely widen where his gaze is fixed on the page in front of him, some kind of practice pamphlet that they’d been given in class to prepare for an upcoming test. 

Harry doesn’t quite know how to respond to it, unsure what Louis’ motives are, what he means by it. Perhaps he’s overreacting a little, yes, but this type of question is bizarre and so unlike Louis, and Harry can’t help but respond justly. 

“Hm. Gonna have to be more specific, I think.” Harry knows he doesn’t have to ask, because even he can remember that there’s probably only one girl Louis could be thinking of, but he’s curious to see what Louis’ answer is. 

Louis bristles, just a little, and oh, now Harry is _very_ interested. “Just… the one you were talking to.”

“Yeah…” he strives for casual in his response, but he can hear the way his voice sounds, slightly inquisitive and a little thin. “What about her?”

“Nothing, really.” Louis’ tone is just about nonchalant, and Harry almost believes it. It’s less than a minute later before Louis adds, “She the same one from the bar?”

Harry frowns at the now blurry words in front of him, amused quirk to his lip forming. “What girl from the bar?” he asks, turning his head to face Louis. 

Louis’ face is still directed at their work, but when Harry looks over, his pen is absently tracing circles in the corner of the page, mind obviously elsewhere. Interesting. 

His expression is hard to decipher, when he turns to look at Harry, eyes unreadable. “The one who’s number you got.” 

What a strange question. What a strange question to come from _Louis,_ of all people. Harry is simultaneously confused and intrigued, towing the line between suspicious and delighted. 

Harry smirks, eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t,” he says, words low and tentative, and Louis’ blank features don’t give anything away. “Why do you ask?”

Louis shrugs, eyes going back to the desk they’re sharing, temperature in the small bedroom rising, just a tad. Perhaps it’s Harry’s imagination, though. “No reason,” he says simply, hint of defense to his tone. “Just wondering. Anyway, let’s get back to this section on Medical Ethics–”

Harry doesn’t buy it. “Hold on a second,” he says, and he’s definitely slipped into delight territory, lifting a hand to signify to Louis that they’re not done. He leans forward, brow creased in question, lips pulled into a smug grin, “would you _mind_ if it was the same girl?”

“No, of course not,” Louis snaps, defensively, Northern accent a little stronger than usual, and Harry’s almost giddy where he sits, watching Louis with full on fascination. “Why would I mind?”

Harry chuckles, now, eyebrows raised. “I dunno, Louis. You’re the one who asked.”

“I was just _curious_ ,” Louis claims, raking a hand through his hair, frustrated, or perhaps nervous, even, and his eyes don’t meet Harry’s. There’s a pause between them, Harry biting back a smile, Louis gone back to doodling idly, and then, “so who was it, then?” 

Harry barks out a laugh, can’t help himself. “I knew it!” he exclaims, cheeks stretching with the satisfied smile on his face. 

Louis gives him a look, unimpressed and cautious. “Knew what?”

Harry sighs, shakes his head in silent disbelief. This is _brilliant_ , he thinks, and the irony of it isn’t lost on him. The fact that Louis’d caught a moment between him and Maddie and taken it as anything other than friendly is one thing, but the fact that the very conversation they were having was Harry admitting he maybe possibly liked him? It’s equal parts hilarious and ridiculous. 

“It’s okay that you were jealous, Louis,” Harry tells him, only really half joking. Obviously he doesn’t believe Louis really _was_ that bothered, but there was obviously something. Plus it’s fun to make him squirm. “I know it seems like I spend all my time wanting to harass you, but I’ve gotta give other people a chance, too.”

Louis’ jaw drops, and he scoffs, loudly, before turning his attention back to the work. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Styles. You’re not that special.”

Harry beams, the realisation that a small percentage of his charm must’ve not gone amiss on Louis after all. “Whatever you say, Louis.”

Louis shakes his head, tense set to his jaw, looking all grumpy and entirely amusing. “Remind me never to ask you a perfectly innocent question ever again,” Louis grumbles, causing another laugh to erupt out of Harry. 

When Harry looks back over, he catches sight of Louis before he quickly turns away, off to get some book of a shelf, apparently, and he’s– his cheeks have gone a shade of pink, subtle enough not to notice easily, but is he… is he _blushing?_ Has Harry made Louis Tomlinson _blush?_

The thought that Louis was jealous was really just a joke at first, a way to wind him up, but it seems as though, maybe, Harry might have hit a more sensitive nerve than he previously believed. 

When Louis sits back down and announces that it’s time to get back to work, Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment any further. The welcome warmth in his chest and the smile that has bloomed by itself slowly and sweetly onto his face is enough to keep him quiet and compliant. At least for the rest of the morning, anyway. 

–

Harry watches as the clock ticks excruciatingly slowly towards one am. 

When it _finally_ gets there, quite literally as soon as the hand ticks over to the one on the clock, Harry drops whatever glass he was half-heartedly polishing and legs it to the break room. 

He’s lucky they mainly use plastic glasses, because, as Nick would say, ever so charmingly; that would have come out of his paycheck.

As it happens, his paycheck is the last thing on his mind, in its place his _bed,_ warm and comfy and incredibly inviting right now after a long, tiring Wednesday night, and it’s only mere minutes away, if he walks quickly. 

“Right, guys, I’m off!” he announces back in the bar area, once he’s retrieved his rucksack and shoved a jumper on over his polo. 

Nick looks up from where he’d been mopping the floor, (finally, it was desperately in need of it), eyes alarmed when he looks up at the clock and then back at Harry. “Jesus, Harold. I think that’s some kind of record, if not a personal best.”

Harry smiles self-consciously, aware that it only ever really takes him under a minute to get swiftly out of the bar once his shift is done. Treasuring his rest is nothing to be ashamed of, though, so he wears the badge with great honour. 

“I like my sleep, Nick,” Harry calls out, waving goodbye to the others who have to finish closing up. “What can I say.”

Nick just grins at him, shooing him away with the end of the dirty, wet mop across the bar. “Go on, then, get your bloody beauty sleep,” he says, narrowly missing flinging it in Harry’s face, “see ya tomorrow.”

Harry giggles sleepily at his childish behaviour, only just about dodging the attempts, as he retreats back towards the exit. Exhaustion settles heavily into his bones as he pushes the door open, and makes his way out into the cold, dark night. 

He’s about halfway there when his stomach drops at a sudden realisation, and he stops in his tracks. 

“ _Shit,”_ he curses out loud to himself in the darkness, remembering that he’s missing a rather vital addition to his person. “Shit shit _shit_.”

His stupid, fucking keys to the flat. 

He knows exactly where they are, can picture them right now, even. Sitting peacefully on his bedside table, without a care in the world. Bloody inanimate objects, Harry thinks. Don’t have to worry about a damn thing. 

Harry knows that, in normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be a problem. He could just go back to the flat, knock repeatedly on the door until Liam woke and up came to rescue him, and all would be fine and dandy. The funny thing is - which is decidedly _not_ funny, Harry’s just used to laughing at his own poor decisions as a coping mechanism - it’s not a normal circumstance. No, because Liam is with _Zayn_ tonight, at the flat, and Harry is far too good of a friend, and, frankly, has invested far too much time and energy in listening to Liam gush about Zayn for the past year, to show up and ruin the moment for them. He supposes he could text Liam, but he doubts he’d get a reply before tomorrow morning. _Fuck._ So going home is pretty much not happening. 

He supposes his next option is Niall, then. He wasn’t working tonight, so there’s a chance he might be out, doing god knows what and where. However, there’s also a chance he’s at his flat, ready and waiting for a friend in need to come and sleep on his sofa. 

As Harry makes his way towards what he remembers as the general direction of Niall’s building, shivering and sleepy and verging on miserable, he tells himself that it’s a chance he might as well take. 

–

“I’m really sorry, I don’t know where he is. He’s not answering his phone?”

The girl on the other side of the door, Niall’s flatmate whose name Harry cannot for the life of him remember right now, says just the words he was _dreading_ to hear, and he can’t help but groan frustratedly in the dimly lit hallway. He had tried Niall’s mobile, of course, to absolutely no avail, and he was silently hoping it just meant the bugger was at home, had just forgotten to charge it. Apparently not. 

He shuts his eyes a moment, squeezes his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose the way he sees people do on TV. It doesn’t do much to ease his stress, admittedly, but it does pinch a bit. Harry sighs to himself. Pathetic. 

He focuses at the girl again, who looks a little alarmed, and Harry realises she must think he’s pissed off at her. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, tone tired but apologetic. “I’m not angry at you. Just the situation. My forgetfulness. Everything else, really.” 

She still looks a little unsure, probably wondering what the fuck he’s on about, considering he’d only told her he was looking for Niall, and not the entire story. He’s not exactly going to ask a relative stranger to stay the night on the couch in her flat, either, regardless of the fact she’s Niall’s flatmate. Also, Harry suspects a random boy showing up at her door at one-something in the morning isn’t exactly a normal occurrence. Or perhaps it is. Harry doesn’t know her life. 

She gives him a sympathetic smile, then, moving to shut the door, and Harry doesn’t blame her. He probably seems a little mental, to be honest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. I’ll let him know you came by tomorrow?”

Harry rakes a hand through his hair, distractedly. “Yeah, uh, it doesn’t really matter, but sure.”

“Okay…” she says, and yep, she definitely thinks Harry’s not all there. Brilliant. “Well, good night, then.” 

“Night,” Harry offers to the closing door, voice quiet and defeated, and then he’s alone again. 

Fuck. What’s he supposed to do now? Everyone else he knows and would be willing to take him for the night is at work, or out clubbing, and he doesn’t feel like doing either of those things. He doesn’t want to move another inch, wants to just curl up and rest right here, against the wall, and maybe in the morning, if he hasn’t frozen to death by then, some pitying neighbour will come across him and bring–

Hold on. 

_Neighbour._

Harry’s eyes dart to the set of stairs next to where he’s slumped against the wall, mind whirring as he figures out which floor he needs to get to.

It’s only one storey up, turns out, and Harry wastes no time in trundling up the steps as quietly as he can manage, footsteps heavy and sloppy for the most part. 

Once he gets there, standing outside, there’s a moment of hesitation before Harry just goes for it, rapping softly three times on the door. 

And he waits. 

He’s starting to think that he didn’t knock hard enough, that the recipient of Harry’s wake up call is still blissfully asleep, unaware of Harry’s dire misfortune, and he’s just about to knock again when the door opens roughly. 

It’s Louis, of course, standing there in light grey trackies that look a bit worn, and a thin blue T-Shirt that almost matches the shade of his eyes in the light. He looks like… like he’s just been woken up, really, but there’s a certain softness and warmth about him in this state that makes Harry melt, just a little. 

“What,” he starts, word sleep-heavy and frayed at the edges, “are you–” his speech is interrupted by a yawn, deep and long, “doing here, Harry?”

Harry tries his best to start stringing some words together in an attempt to explain himself, tries not to get distracted by the rasp in Louis’ voice, or the sweet way he rubs his eyes in the abrasive light, but it’s all so endearing and kitten-like that it makes Harry forget to say anything. 

“Look,” Louis continues, eyes half open and speech slurred with sleep, after getting no response from Harry, “I’m aware that I’m not fully conscious right now, but I know for a fact that we didn’t schedule a tutoring session for one o’clock in the fucking morning.”

Louis’ curt, harsh tone, in stark contrast to the softened way he looks right now, is amusing enough for Harry to drift out of his little daze. 

Harry bites his lip to stop from smiling. “I need to ask a favour,” he says seriously. 

“And that favour being?” How Louis manages to swathe every word in sarcasm, even when he’s just woken up, is a delightful mystery to Harry. 

Harry takes a breath. “I’ve just got off work, and I forgot my keys to my flat, and I know for a fact that Liam’s in there with Zayn, and to be honest I have… absolutely no desire in disturbing that little rendezvous.”

Louis scowls at him as he reels off his explanation, or perhaps he’s just squinting in the harsh light. Harry’ll go with the second one. 

“I’ve tried Niall’s already, but he’s out, who the fuck knows where, so I’m pretty much desperate at this point.”

Louis stares at him for a beat, a single eyebrow raised. “So what are you asking?”

Harry’s desperate expression turns into one of a simpering description, and he dimples across at the boy in the doorway for all that he’s worth. “Please can I, uh. Stay here?” 

It takes Louis less than three seconds to decide on Harry’s fate, and it’s likely because his judgement’s clouded by the hour, or maybe it’s the look of Harry, what he’s sure is a pitiful, helpless sight, that makes Louis give him such a quick answer. Or perhaps he’s just a good person, actually, now that Harry thinks about it. 

Nonetheless, an unimpressed stare and slight sigh accompanies the statement. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

Did Harry say good? He meant relatively decent, at best. 

–

The floor is, well, just as Harry had expected. 

It’s bearable at best, worse than walking barefoot in the pits of hell at worst. Okay, so perhaps Harry gets a little more dramatic than usual when he’s tired. Who knew. 

Louis’d given him a few blankets and a pillow, of course, but it doesn’t really help much when the floor is as uneven and bumpy as shitty student accommodation floors are. Harry had hoped he’d get the sofa, but the living room area of the flat has restricted access, or something ridiculous like that, one of Zayn’s art projects that he does in his spare time - because, of course Zayn, an English Literature student who probably has about a hundred books to read a week, somehow still finds _spare time_ , the jammy git - taking up the sofa and chair and entirety of the floor, apparently. 

The next best option was then Zayn’s room, of course. He doesn’t know the bloke too well but he was sure Zayn wouldn’t mind him kipping in his bed for a few hours. As it turns out, Zayn had left his bedroom door locked, and, really, Harry hadn’t much wanted to let his mind wander too far as to why that might be. 

So, Harry’s current position is on Louis’ bedroom floor, array of blankets rumpled up around him as he tosses and turns restlessly, about to face the fact that he’s about to get no sleep tonight. 

He’s sure the shitty state of his back has something to do with it, along with the growing anxiety about the Philosophy test tomorrow, the one that Harry had conveniently ignored until the last minute, also known as right now. 

He’s about to flip over onto his stomach _again_ to see if the third time attempting sleep in that position is really the charm, when he hears Louis sigh from above him. 

“If you keep moving about like that, neither of us will be getting any bloody sleep.”

Harry stills in his movements, eyes widening in the darkness at the breaking of the silence. He immediately feels guilty; had thought Louis was sleeping already, soft sounds of his even breaths up until now a good indication of that. Well, Harry had thought, anyway. 

“Shit, ‘m sorry,” Harry whispers back, loud enough for Louis to hear a few feet away. “Didn’t mean to keep you up. It’s just my back, it’s playing up again,” he explains, feels the muscles bunch and tighten in protest as he says it. “‘S’been a while since I’ve slept on the floor.” 

He attempts to make it sound light hearted, playful, even, but the unrelenting sharp pain just under his shoulder blade means the words come out all reedy and thin. 

There’s not really any response to that, and Harry starts to think that Louis’ actually drifted off, when–

“Come up here, then.”

It’s a quiet, almost bored statement, and Harry balks in the darkness, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Did he hear Louis correctly?

Harry clears his throat. “What?”

“Come up here, before I change my mind, Styles,” Louis warns, voice unreadable, while Harry is still in a mild state of shock, “I’m cold, anyway, so you may as well make yourself useful after barging into my room in the middle of the night.”

Harry can’t get up from his pitiful makeshift bed quick enough. He stands over the double bed, tucked into the corner of the room, and by the artificial light from outside slipping through the cracks of the blinds, can just make out the faint outline of Louis’ body on the side closest to the wall, small in the way he’s curled himself up. Harry does _not_ smile at it, because that would be weird. 

“To be fair,” Harry responds, as he slips under the duvet and into the bed, tension in his neck and shoulders and back easing by the second. “You _did_ invite me in–”

Louis scoffs next to him before Harry gets to finish his sentence. “Just shut up and go to sleep, would you?” His voice is slightly muffled by the pillow, but Harry can still tell that there’s no heat to it. “Honestly, never stop talking,” he adds, and Harry would even caution to say he can hear a smile through the hushed words. 

Harry smirks and says nothing, now fully aware of the warmth of Louis’ body next to his where he lies, and he tries his hardest to stay still, not wanting to brush against Louis by mistake, or something, and oh _god_ , since when has he been this self-aware while sleeping in another person’s bed, ever?

Harry can tell they’re both awake for the next few minutes or so, and he’s about to settle down, make himself comfortable and _not_ comment on the fact that the bed seems plenty warm without another person. He’s just drifting off when Louis‘ voice materialises next to him; soft and barely there. 

“I did want to switch courses to Drama, you know. Last year. I nearly did, too.”

It’s… it’s so random, Harry immediately thinks, so much so that he has to rack his brain to try and think what Louis could be talking about. After a moment he remembers; that little heated discussion they’d had in the library, Louis reacting badly to something Harry had said. 

He’s confused why Louis’ suddenly brought this up, here, in the middle of the night while they’re laying in bed, but for reasons unknown, he doesn’t say a word. It’s somehow intimate, the way Louis says it, that Harry can only stare up at the dark ceiling, studying the glow in the dark stars stuck there that he’s _certainly_ going to bring up another time, speechless in response. 

He’s still turned away from Harry, voice directed at the wall. Harry wants him to turn around, wants to see his face in the dim light, understand a little more what’s going on behind those eyes. 

“Why didn’t you?” Harry finally asks, simply, words careful and low in the small space between them. He doesn’t want to break whatever this precarious moment is; Louis offering up a part of himself, a truth, however small it is, willingly and openly. The small sentence is enough encouragement for Louis to continue. 

“I had this–” he starts, quiet, then scoffs at himself. Harry doesn’t like the sound. “I was with someone, at the time, who convinced me out of it. Told me it was a stupid degree, that taking it would be a waste of time.” Louis clears his throat, words gone bitter, harsh. “That I wouldn’t be good enough at it to make a career out of it, anyway.” 

Harry frowns, veins running hot, suddenly, throat thick .“That’s not true, Louis,” he tells him, and he’s so fucking tired, but his voice doesn’t reflect that, instead it’s firm and laced with something else, something terse and heated and raw. “That’s not true at all.”

Louis hums, rolls over into his back, and Harry turns his head on the pillow to look at him while he talks. His tone is light, dismissive, but even Harry can see through it. “Well. I’m no Stephen Daldry, obviously, that’s for sure.”

Harry shakes his head, feeling slightly wired suddenly. “So?” Harry’s aware he may sound manic, and far too offended on Louis’ behalf to not be deemed a little suspicious, but he doesn’t care. This is important. “Who the fuck is that?”

Louis releases a single chuckle into the space above them, lacking any warmth. “He’s quite a famous theatre director, actual–”

“Well you’re Louis Tomlinson, and you’re fucking brilliant.” Harry says, voice no longer a whisper, meaning every word. “Listen to me.”

Louis’ head seems to cock with interest, at least that’s what Harry thinks he sees. He wishes he could see Louis’ expression, wants to know what he looks like, if that air of self assurance that Harry’s so used to is gone, in its place something like vulnerability. That’s what’s Harry’s picturing, anyway. 

Harry directs his voice towards Louis, eyes slightly adjusted to the darkness now so he can make out some of his features a little better. “I don’t know much about theatre, or, like, directing, any of that stuff.” Harry’s off to a solid start. “But that performance that you put on the other night? It was fantastic, Louis. It was… it was funny, in the right places, and sad and happy and satisfying, and like, I know I’m not really articulating myself well, but, like. What I’m trying to say is that I know that that play could not have been half of what it was without you.” 

Louis says nothing, and Harry doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. He doesn’t know where this has all come from, the sudden impulse to say it just springing on him with no warning. 

“And,” Harry adds, because apparently he’s not done yet. “I bet Steve Daldry, or whatever–”

“Stephen,” Louis offers, through what sounds like curved lips. 

“Yeah, Stephen, exactly what I said,” Harry deadpans, earning himself one of those lovely, twinkly laughs from Louis. “I bet he didn’t start directing plays on broadway, right?”

Harry thinks he can see the furrow in Louis’ brow subside, expression is softer, now, more relaxed. Perhaps it’s his imagination. Wishful thinking, maybe. “I think you mean the West End, but yes.”

“Exactly, same thing,” Harry dismisses, eager to do anything that’ll make Louis smile. “I bet _he_ started small. Maybe something like directing a play at his Uni, too.”

Louis hums, and then he turns towards Harry. Harry can make out the cloudy blue of his eyes in the dim light, full of something unreadable. “Yeah,” he agrees, softly, the word a whisper. “Maybe.”

It doesn’t quite convince Harry, but he’s not sure where to stop, where it becomes overstepping again. He just wants to help, above all. “Look, I don’t– I don’t want to tell you what to do, or anything. I don’t make the best decisions, that much is clear.”

Harry thinks he hears Louis chuckle under his breath at the joke. 

“But if you want to change… if you want to switch courses, then nothing,” Harry says, trying his best to tread lightly, “no one, not some tosser who– who has _no_ idea what he’s talking about, by the way, should stop you from doing what you love. You know?”

Harry doesn’t quite know when he became some sort of motivational speaker, but it’s like it was natural, the words flowing freely as he stared at Louis, wanting him desperately to hear what he was saying, actually listen to the words. 

It’s a moment before Louis finally responds, majority of it spent feeling the newly charged energy of the room, the weight of it, the way the blood rushes in Harry’s ears. 

“Well, well, well,” Louis says, dryly, and it’s just about audible. “You’ve surprised me, Harry Styles. That was quite a speech.”

Harry blinks, trying to process it. Louis - the person who from day one believed he had Harry all figured out - has actually been caught off guard by him, for once. This would be cause for celebration, in any other situation. 

Instead Harry nods at him, unsure if Louis can even see him do it. “Well. Yeah. ‘M not just a pretty face, and all that,” he remarks, softly, tone only half-joking. He still wants Louis to know he’s serious about this. 

Louis laughs, loudly this time, and the sound Harry’s come to thoroughly enjoy makes his breath stutter. “I take it back, you’re completely predictable again.”

Harry slaps a hand to his face, grinning now despite the darkness. “Damn it! And we were so close, too,” he laments, unable to keep the cheer from his tone. This is nice, really. Joking around with Louis, so openly and naturally. Harry could get used to it. 

When Harry doesn’t hear a response after a little while, he opens his eyes and tries to focus on Louis, lets his smile fade, a bit. “What is it?”

Louis doesn’t take longer than a minute to reply, as though he was waiting for it. “I brought that all up for a reason, you know. Not just to be, like, pitied, or whatever.”

“I don’t pity you, Louis.” He doesn’t, not at all. He admires him, actually. Harry almost tells him so, but then decides to keep that to himself, for now.

“Good.” Louis utters simply, word almost getting lost in the room as he’s gone back to staring up at the ceiling. “Well, the point of it was that I just, I’d been thinking about the other day, when you apologised.”

Harry’s lost for a moment, before he remembers. How could he forget, really. Was half the reason he went to that play in the first place. “What about it?”

“I realised I owe you an apology, too.” 

Now Harry’s really lost. “What– what for?”

“The way I reacted, before, it was–” Louis stops a second, releases a breath. “Sometimes I can be quite… abrasive, and dismissive, I guess.”

Harry smiles, involuntarily. _“No!”_ his voice breaks on the word, half a laugh trickling through,“Really?” 

Harry’s striving to inject a little humour into the seriousness of the conversation, voice soft and teasing, and Louis’ sleepy little scoff next to him is enough to tell him he succeeded. 

“Would you just let me apologise, for God’s sake, Harry?” Louis complains to the room, voice croaky and crackly and lovely, equal levels of exasperation and amusement seeping through the words. They’re both so exhausted, delirious from it, probably. Harry doesn’t mind, though.

“You don’t need to, Louis,” Harry responds through a yawn, but there’s no fight in it. “I overstepped, it’s fine.”

Louis’ voice is directed at Harry, now; he’s turned towards him again, Harry can see clearer than before. Their faces are so close; Harry can feel his warm breath on his cheek, eliciting a shiver. 

“But I was rude, my reaction to you. It was uncalled for, you were only trying to help. And I’m sorry. I’m– I’m trying to get better, at that sort of thing,” Louis explains, and Harry almost can’t believe how open he’s being; Harry’s learned more about him in the past ten minutes than he has in the past three weeks. It’s incredible. 

“That’s okay,” Harry assures him, quietly. It is. “Apology accepted.”

There’s a pause, here, where neither of them say anything. Harry thinks Louis may have finally gone to sleep before his voice, low and sleepy and very, very close, sounds next to him. 

“Why were you so difficult, at the start?”

Harry frowns, chuckling silently under his breath as he replies, “what d’you mean?”

Louis exhales, softly. “I mean,” he says, turning over to face Harry. “Why did it take a little while for you to actually start to engage in the extra lessons, and not act like you… I dunno, resented them?” 

Harry sighs, then.

Usually, if it was anyone else, he’d probably dismiss Louis, pretend like he doesn’t know what he’s on about. Usually he wouldn’t even think about telling Louis why it took him so long to actually take it seriously. 

But Louis’ not just anyone else. Louis’ different.

Harry takes a slow, shallow breath. He may as well start from the beginning. 

“When I was growing up, I was– I suppose I was a slow learner,” he starts, voice a quiet whisper as he stares at the faint lines of the ceiling above them. “I was fine once I got, like, the fundamentals down. But it took me a little while longer than everyone else. It didn’t help that I had a brainiac for a sister, or that all my mates were getting As and A*s in their mock exams, when I could barely scrape a C.”

He hears Louis breathing quietly next to him, almost as though he’s asleep. He can feel the other boy’s eyes on him, though, a hot stare that remains as he speaks. He tries not to think about how he’s never really told anyone this, ever. Never really admitted it out loud before now. 

“Anyway, I was too stubborn, I guess, and had _way_ too much pride that was justified for a fifteen year old–”

He’s interrupted by that lovely twinkling laugh, and he doesn’t mind. 

“–so I never asked for help. Just worked really hard myself, when it came to proper exams, spent every weekend at home studying when I could have been out with my mates, had I had some extra lessons, or something. But, I dunno, I wanted to feel like I didn’t need them, that I could do it all on my own.” 

Harry sighs, then, remembering how it felt to have to isolate himself completely under the fear that he’d never pass any of his exams and so would never be able to go to uni and he’d just be stuck, stuck at school his entire life unless he passed those bloody exams. 

(Perhaps he is a bit of a drama queen.)

“It’s lucky that I even got in here, you know. Got in by the skin of my teeth. Had an ace RS teacher at school; Mrs. Beckett. Pretty sure she’s the whole reason I got in for this course.

“Anyway, the point is… the point is is that once I got here, it felt like I could finally breathe? I dunno, I just– it’s not that I started slacking, I just started letting myself relax a bit, but like, I suppose that’s not really good enough with these standards. 

“But in answer to your question, I think it’s that, like… I’m so terrified of feeling that way again, like the helpless, stupid student who doesn’t get it when everyone else does, and so like… I guess I thought if I couldn’t get out of the tutoring, then I could just try and not take it seriously, so I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I’m basically just coasting, that I’m not as clever as I think I am, that in fact I’m sort of stupid but just lucky, and that if I don’t try then I can’t really, uh, fail. I guess.”

It’s really quiet, then, the only sound is two sets of breaths, slow and steady, and Harry’s almost sure Louis’ gone to sleep at that point, which he’s slightly relieved by, until–

“You’re not stupid, Harry. Not at all.” 

The words are soft, laced with warmth and reassurance and sincerity and Harry feels his chest constrict at them. 

“Well, I mean, I’m not the _brightest–”_

Louis ignores his protests. 

“I never thought you were, ever. And you shouldn’t think you are, either. You’re the opposite. You’re fuckin’ brilliant, yourself, actually, the way you’ve grasped almost every topic in the module we’ve been studying already is… it’s bloody impressive–“

“‘S’not like I’m learning it for the first time, though, is it?” Harry reminds him, only slightly bitter, already feeling his cheeks redden and heart rate quicken with the words Louis’ sharing. 

“Everyone needs a bit of help every now and then, Harry. And look at you. Do you even hear yourself in our sessions now?” Louis sounds so happy and… and excited, even, despite the early hour, “You’re so, _so_ much more confident than you were when we first started. It’s… I’m– I’m so proud of you, Harry.”

Harry wants to argue even more, wants to assure Louis that he’s just been fooled like everyone else, but he doesn’t quite have the energy. He knows Louis must think that he’s rather alright at Ethics, now, but that’s only because he tries so hard. Half to please himself, half to please Louis. (Can you really blame him?)

“And don’t ever let yourself give someone else the credit for your accomplishments, Harry,” Louis says, and words are hard, clear and present. Harry blinks. “You worked your arse off to get here, and you did it, all by yourself, you even said! That was all you, H. Don’t… don’t diminish that. Not when you’re so deserving of the praise.”

“I–” and Harry’s first instinct is to argue back, of course, but then… but then he thinks about it for a moment. Mulls the words over in his mind for a moment. Realises that, perhaps… perhaps Louis is right. Just a little bit. 

“If you’re about to argue again, I swear to God–” Louis starts, voice raspy and choppy, a trace of a smile in there somewhere. 

Harry chuckles, low and quiet in the receding darkness. “No, ‘m not. ‘ve given up, now,” he tells Louis, and the sweetness to his tone is due to his tiredness and _not_ because it’s Louis. (Okay, maybe a little bit.)

Louis hums, obviously pleased with himself. 

“Thank you, Lou.” Harry whispers it, soft and hushed and dripping with sincerity. He doesn’t quite know how to tell Louis how much better he’s made him feel about… well, about himself. The butterflies in his stomach seem to multiply with each word he says. 

Louis yawns, a sweet, cat-like noise that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. “‘S fine,” he breathes, striving for casual, Harry suspects, “now go to sleep. Kept me up for ages, now. The cheek of it.”

Harry laughs a sleepy laugh at that. Of course he’d go all hard-shelled at the end of their chat. Harry doesn’t mind though. Not this time. 

He turns to the side to see Louis still awake, only just, eyes open, slightly, fixed on Harry. They don’t say a word as they lay there, inches apart, in the now lowly lit room. 

Harry blinks languidly as his eyes search Louis’ own. He’ll never get tired of that deep, captivating blue; shades upon shades of the colour layered into a tone so impossibly beautiful.

He’s so _good,_ too, so caring and kind, encouraging and sweet and utterly lovely behind that rough, prickly exterior that Harry’s somehow managed to worm his way through, even if it’s just for now, under the quiet blanket of night.

There’s a whole other side to Louis that he’s itching to explore, after catching a glimpse of it, and, well. 

If Harry wasn’t in deep before, he sure is now. 

–

Harry slowly wakes up to the sound of murmuring voices not too far away, the feeling of comfortable yet unfamiliar sheets beneath him, another person’s body heat keeping him warm, and someone else’s hair in his face. 

Harry’s mind is sleep-heavy, eyes still shut and he’s barely awake, all he knows is this is nice, he likes this, likes this feeling a lot. He takes a deep, sleepy breath as he tightens his hold, palm pressed against a hot, softly rising and falling chest, nuzzling closer into the heat that they’re emitting as they lay there. 

It’s only a few moments later when Harry realises just who exactly he’s woken up spooning.

He doesn’t move, not right away, partly because of the fact that Louis’ arse is pressed _dangerously_ close against his crotch, and also due to the fact that their limbs are all a tangled mess, ankles hooked with each others’ and skin on skin in the way that Harry’s barely conscious brain isn’t sure what belongs to who, and also, well. Louis smells nice.

Harry’s ended up with his face pressed against the nape of Louis’ neck, smooth skin velvety soft under Harry’s nose, the scent sweet and rich, something deep with a hint of freshness that Harry can only identify as quintessentially _Louis._ He takes another greedy breath, lightheaded, almost, and perhaps he could say that that’s just because he’s just woken up and is a little overwhelmed by all of this, but he’d be lying. A little bit. 

“Once you’re done sniffing me we should probably get up and head to the lecture. Clive’ll be on the warpath, otherwise.”

Harry immediately stiffens, breath caught in his throat as he listens to Louis speak up from his front of him, absolutely no indication to how long the other boy has been awake for. He takes his arm away, slowly and painfully awkwardly, and he thinks this is the first time he’s ever reacted this way after waking up in someone’s arms, possibly ever. 

He clears his throat, thankful that Louis’ still facing the other direction and willing the deep pink flush in his cheeks that he _knows_ has appeared to go down as soon as physically possible. 

“Yeah, right. Good idea,” he untwines their bodies, the comforting warmth a sorry loss, one that he tries his best not to focus on as he rubs his eyes and sits up in Louis’ bed, as well as the fact that that was one of the best sleeps he’s had in a long while. “Can I, uh. Use your bathroom?” 

“Yeah, alright,” Louis says, sleepily, and half on a yawn, “just be quick. And no funny business.”

It’s very casual, the way he says it, Harry thinks, as he slips out of bed and makes his way out of the bedroom. Almost like it’s a routine of sorts, for Louis. Practiced, like he’s done this before. Woken up with someone in his bed, begrudgingly let them use his bathroom. Which is fine, obviously. Harry’s not– he’s not _jealous._ He doesn’t _get_ jealous. It’s just. It’s just that Harry can’t help thinking about how he doesn’t really want anyone else sharing Louis’ bed apart from himself. 

There’s a sharp knock on the front door as he walks through the flat that distracts Harry from his thoughts, and without thinking about how it’s rather early for someone to be coming round, or how desperately he needs a wee and the bathroom is mere metres away, he goes to open it.

He realises his mistake about 0.2 seconds later. 

_“_ Oh! _Harry!”_ Niall, of all people at this bloody university, positively _beams_ , because of _course_ it’s Niall, voice far too giddy and energetic for someone who is definitely still in last night’s clothes. “Now _this_ is a surprise.”

Harry gets over his mild shock at the sight of his bedraggled looking friend in front of him just in time to reply. “Um. Yeah, well. Didn’t think I’d see you here so early, either.”

Niall cackles, loudly, and do hangovers just not exist for him? “Yeah, I _bet_ you didn’t, you cheeky minx.”

Harry starts, tries to keep the creeping blush off his face at this whole situation. Of _course_ Niall of all people would find him in this compromising position. Harry knows what this looks like, knows it looks like he spent the night for far less innocent reasons. It couldn’t have been the bloody boiler man at the door, or, like. Anyone else. No, of course not. “It’s not what you think, Niall,” he tells him, throat tight, words coming out in a rushed haste. “Stop looking at me like that!”

Niall doesn’t wipe the knowing smirk from his face, the bugger, and Harry can _feel_ the flush on his cheeks spreading, which is definitely not helping his case. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s reacting this way, nothing even happened between them. Nothing at all. 

“Okay, then _please,_ by all means, do explain to me why you’re here. Answering the door to Louis’ flat. At–” he pauses to check his phone, screen devoid of the countless calls and texts Harry had left him, which isn’t even surprising. “Eight forty-seven am?”

Harry shuffles where he stands, ready for this borderline interrogation to end. “If you _must_ know, I was locked out of my flat, and had to seek alternative refuge. Which, actually, you would know already if you’d ever answer your bloody phone–”

“Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that,” Niall admits, but he doesn’t look sorry at all. Bastard. “Can see it worked out for the best, though.” Niall’s eyes flicker down Harry, and then he bloody _winks._ “Considering.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “Considering _what?”_

Niall barks a laugh, then fixes Harry with a look. “Considering you’re wearing his bloody T-Shirt, mate.”

“Wha–?” Harry starts, frantically glancing down at his top, and then cuts himself off when he remembers. 

It’s– okay, yes. Harry supposes his mere attire of underwear and Louis’ top looks suspicious. However, it’s not his fault that he wasn’t even two steps into the flat when Louis chucked a random T-Shirt at him and told him to put it on, telling him the one he was currently wearing apparently smelt too badly of ‘spilt alcohol and other people’s poor decisions’.

Still, Harry can’t really deny that he’s wearing Louis’ clothes. 

He looks up to see Niall grinning at him. Harry feels his cheeks darkening by the second at the sight. 

“I– alright, fine. Yes, this is his top. But there’s an extremely valid explanation for it, you see–”

Niall cuts him off, giggling like a maniac. “I’m _sure_ there is, dear Harold, I’m sure there is.” and he sounds completely unsure, “Don’t hurt yourself trying to figure it out though, eh?”

“But Niall, honestly nothi–”

“Unfortunately I don’t have time to hear it, gotta be off, got things to see and people to do, you know?”

“Jesus, Niall,” Harry groans, but still chuckles. He can’t help it. “Why are you even here, anyway?”

Niall’s smile doesn’t waver, and he practically doesn’t miss a beat. “Uh, I actually just came by to drop a book off for Zayn, is he in?”

Harry releases a breath, slightly frustrated. It’s way too early for this. “No, he’s not. He’s with Liam, at mine, ironically enough.”

Niall raises his eyebrows, delighted once again. “Ah, so it seems like we _all_ had a bit of fun last night! Sick.”

Harry scrubs a hand down his face and tries to remember why he’s friends with such a numpty. “ _No,_ Niall, we didn’t–”

“Gotta run, mate,” Niall then says, rather hastily, backing away from the doorway and towards the stairs, before turning around and starting his descent. “I’ll see you later at work,” he calls up, voice travelling, “you can tell me all about it!”

Harry doesn’t even bother wasting his breath in response, just sighs and stands against the doorway for a moment. Well, with his luck, he should have known this was bound to happen. He supposes someone thinking him and Louis have slept together isn’t the _worst_ thing, but the fact is it’s not true. Hopefully Niall doesn’t impart his newfound wrong wisdom to anyone on his way. 

It’s only when Harry’s leaving the bathroom and making his way back to Louis’ room, that he realises Niall wasn’t even holding a book when he had knocked on the door. 

Oh, the actual prick. 

–

“Harry, Louis, stay behind please. I’d like to have a word.”

It’s the sentence Harry had been dreading to hear ever since he finished the test in class, praying to literally any god that would listen that Clive wouldn’t have something to say about the state of the essay on deontological ethics that he had revised an embarrassing amount for. 

He glances over at Louis, with an equally wary expression, as they both stand frozen in the doorway, everyone else in the seminar having left already. He knew they shouldn’t have sat at the back, knew the front row meant a quick escape at the end, however he only really has himself and his apparent _‘unnecessarily long grooming process’_ according to Louis, to thank for their lateness and their subsequent positioning at the back of the lecture hall.

They both turn around, and trail back over to Clive, who sits on his desk, waiting. He doesn’t _look_ too disappointed, so Harry thinks they could be alright. Perhaps get off with an _oh for goodness sake Harry, you could do so much better than this,_ and call it a day. 

Harry steals one more glance over at Louis as they come to a stop in front their tutor. There’s a hint of a reassuring smile on his face, a quick quirk of the lips which is gone as quickly as it comes, but Harry still catches it. He feels a fraction of the tension leave his bones at the sight.

“Right, well. I’m sure you know why I held you both back.” 

Harry just stares at him, unable to form a response, mainly because he doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s glad Louis’ here with him, though.

He clears his throat, thick and dry with nerves. “Uh, actually I’m, um. I’m not too sure,” Harry admits, voice quieter than he’s used to. He can’t really meet Clive’s eyes, finds himself terrified to see disappointment laced in his features.

“Harry.” Clive says, low and sincere between them. Louis is silent.

Harry looks up. “Yeah– uh, yes?”

And then Clive… he _smiles_ , and Harry finds himself a little in shock at this rarity. “Your paper was absolutely brilliant.”

Harry’s breath catches, eyes widening and voice lacking any words, and he thinks he hears Louis release a sigh of relief where he stands close next to him.

“Really?!” Harry exclaims, grinning from ear to ear at this point, because _really,_ he was not expecting this at all. 

Clive grins back, looking… looking _proud,_ and Harry can’t help but do the same. “Yes, really,” he replies, nodding at the two boys. “Whatever you two have been doing, it’s working, I can tell you that. This work is worlds away from what it was before, I’m telling you. You seem to really be understanding and appreciating the material now.”

Harry uses that moment to take the opportunity to look over at Louis, the person pretty much responsible for Clive regarding Harry with something other than disdain for probably the first time ever. 

It’s a quiet flicker of something, in the other boy’s eyes, something small, almost undetectable, but definitely _there_ , combined with the smallest trace of a smile and slight, rare flush to his cheeks, that halts Harry in his movements.

Harry’s never seen Louis look at him like that. Like something– almost something precious. A certain reverence in those shades of blue that, surely, can’t be directed at himself. That surely can’t be because of him. But it is. 

“Well done.”

The two simple words are mouthed across at Harry, like a secret, pleasure evident in them. Clive has started up again about something to do with maintaining this level, not coasting along, but Harry’s not really paying attention. How could he, really, when Louis’ looking at him like this. 

All he gives him in response is a relieved smile, a slight nod, warmth making a home in his bones as he stares across at this boy. His head still feels a little dizzy. 

“Well, best be going then,” Clive announces, clapping his hands once to emphasise his words. It’s the shock of sound in the silence that gets Harry to tear his eyes away and onto his tutor, more than anything. “See you chaps next time.” He gets up from the desk, makes towards the door. Harry is only half concentrating, can still feel Louis’ gaze on him. Hot, piercing. “And, really. Very good work, boys.”

Harry doesn’t even wait for the door to fully close, for them to finally be alone in the empty lecture hall, when he turns to face Louis, reaches out, takes him into his arms. 

“ _Thank you_.” 

He breathes it into Louis’ hair, the silky part just behind his ear, where Harry’s lips have just lined up to. He feels Louis’ arms find their way around his waist; a warm, welcome weight. And he likes the way Louis’ fingertips dig into his sides as he holds onto Harry just as tight, saying nothing, because he doesn’t need to. 

Harry doesn’t even try to ignore the sensation of his stomach fluttering at the feeling of holding Louis in his arms like this, the way his nerve endings seem to fizz where they touch the other boy. The way his heart beats faster and faster every second he stays as close as he is to him, curves and dips of their bodies lining up with ease, as if they were made just for this. Harry never wants to let go. 

He feels Louis loosen his hold, just a little, after a moment, and so Harry does too, regrettably. His arms, gripped tight atop Louis’ shoulders, let up a little, and stay encircling the other boy. Louis’ hands come to rest on Harry’s hips, a position that Harry desperately tries not to think too hard about. 

And then Harry’s eyes focus, go to Louis’. Blue, bright, sharp; fixed on Harry. Suddenly he’s aware of his heartbeat thumping in his ears, and the air feels thick around them, the rest of the room fuzzy and out of reach. It’s enough to make Harry lose his breath, just for a moment. 

And then their faces are inches apart, close enough for just a whisper to be heard, but they don’t speak, don’t break the silence. Close enough that if Harry dipped his head down, just a little, he could close the gap between them. Just like he so desperately, _desperately_ wants to. 

And then Louis’ eyes drop to Harry’s lips, lashes fluttering ever so slightly at the acute shift, almost like a hint, like an invitation, and it’s about too much for Harry to bear.

And then the door swings open, squeaking on its hinges, loud chatter of the next class harshly disrupting the careful quiet they’d created, and the moment, the potential for something, for anything, disintegrates just like that.

They separate, Harry averting his gaze and realising much too late with a flash of heat under his skin that he’d been holding Louis for much longer than anyone could explain away as being platonic. He can’t say he cares too much, though. 

“I, um–” Harry starts, clearing his throat almost immediately after the words come out high, and thin. “I better get to work, then,” he’s trying not to look at Louis, fiddling with a strap on his rucksack as they both gravitate towards the exit, because he can already feel his lips stretching into a nervous smile, cheeks flushing at the thought of what could have happened had they not been interrupted. 

“Yeah, I, uh, actually have a couple things I need to do, too,” Louis responds, from next to Harry, and his voice sounds slightly softer, words slower than usual, or perhaps it’s just Harry’s imagination. 

Once they leave the classroom, ignoring the questioning looks from some first years, Harry chances a glance over to Louis as they start to wander down the lofty hallway. He watches as the other boy pushes his hair back from his face, sleeve slipping down his deft wrist, slight fingers slow and sure in the movement, one that Harry notices he seems to do a lot. He’s nervous, Harry realises. And somehow, this just makes Harry’s smile grow.

Louis glances up at him, almost like he knew, and immediately breaks out into a suspicious grin himself, brows furrowed and lips quirked, eyes narrowed accusingly, “what’re you smilin’ at, Styles?” he simpers, half wary, half amused, like he can’t even pretend to be irritated at him all the time anymore. Harry loves it.

“Nothing,” Harry says through his smile, next words light on a breath, “just you.”

And it shouldn’t be _such_ a big deal, at least Harry thinks so, or maybe it should and he’s just distracted (again), but he realises two words can mean a lot when uttered to someone in such a way, so much in fact that said person seems to tense up next to him, and can’t even seem to meet his eyes when he replies.

“Right, uh, well. I, um,” Louis starts, shoving his hands in and out of his pockets brusquely. Adorably, really. “Should be going, then. I have– um. Things. A meeting, to get to. So,” and he still won’t look over at Harry, but it’s not– it’s not bad. It’s almost sweet. The blush on his cheekbones may have something to do with that too, though. “See ya later!” It comes out rushed, words spilling all over each other, as Louis turns to part ways with Harry rather abruptly, and promptly walks into some poor unsuspecting other student in his hurry. 

Harry laughs at that, he can’t help it. And the scowl Louis offers him in return does nothing to quell his cackles. “So I’ll just... pretend I didn’t see that?”

Harry can see Louis shake his head where he walks away, words thrown over his shoulder, “you better, dickhead!”

“See you later, then!” Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little desperate in hoping he would actually see Louis later. He’d also be lying if he said he wasn’t keeping his ears pricked more than usual in wait of the other boy’s reply.

There’s a sigh from the retreating figure, and then, “yeah, yeah, you will.”

Harry grins all the way back to halls. 

–

“Would you two mind not snogging right on top of the bar? Some of us are actually trying to work, here.”

Liam and Zayn seem absolutely oblivious to Harry’s comment, as they continue their rather enthusiastic greeting _right_ in front of him. Either that or he’s being ignored, either way Harry just has to settle for staring disgustedly at them as they desperately pepper each other with sickening little kisses everywhere, all over each other’s faces, as though they’ve been separated for days when Harry knows for a fact that it’s quite literally been upwards of about a few hours. 

If they were anyone else he’d have kicked them out of the bar by now, citing it as ‘inappropriate behaviour for a public setting’, (it’s happened a few times before where Harry’s gotten sick of couples using his bar as a prime make-out spot, and he’d definitely taken full advantage of his role as an employee of the establishment as a way to, shall we say, encourage them to seek an alternative setting for their activities). 

However, since it’s Liam and Zayn, Harry has to admit he is a _little_ excited for them, and it is a rather sweet sight, so he’ll let it slide. Not that he would ever say that out loud, though.

“You? _Work?”_ Niall’s deafening voice comes from close behind him, amused and indignant, and tone only best described as though he believes he’s God’s gift to comedy, “never heard a funnier joke in my life, mate!”

Harry turns towards his friend, scowling, “ha ha,” he mocks, although Niall’s not exactly wrong, “that was a good one, Horan, you should write it down.”

Niall just laughs at him, finding him far too amusing than Harry would like, “oh, don’t you worry, mate, got plenty more where that came from.”

Harry just rolls his eyes at him, and goes back to half-heartedly wiping down the bartop with a damp cloth, deliberately going over Liam’s bare elbow where it’s leaning against the wood.

“Hey!” Liam exclaims, startled by the sudden wetness, probably, looking across at Harry accusingly once he notices the cloth in his hand. 

“Finally he’s come up for air!” Harry jokes, smirking at his best friend, and watches as his expression goes from grumpy to giddy in a matter of seconds. 

Liam blushes, and Zayn giggles, and for fuck’s sake, they’re just as bad as each other, “shut _uppppp,_ H, we’re not that bad,” he whines, smile unwavering.

“Mate, I literally just asked you to move and neither of you heard me.”

Liam gapes at him, frowning, “no you didn't! Did you?” he asks, suddenly unsure, and he turns to Zayn for confirmation as though he was any more in tune to the outside world than Liam was. “Did he?”

Zayn just shrugs, and Harry’s not even sure the guy’s listening right now, he’s just staring across at Liam with a weird look on his face, like that’s the only thing worth concentrating on. 

“He did, mate,” Niall pipes in, leaning across even though he’s serving a customer at the same time, “literally about a minute ago.”

Liam blushes even more, then, lips curling up at the edges into a tiny, bashful smile. “Oh,” he says, quiet and soft, “guess I didn’t hear, then.”

Harry can’t help but find it rather endearing, and offers Liam a grin in return. He is genuinely happy for his best mate, and he knows Liam knows that. A little teasing is practically required, though, especially when Liam seems to have completely lost his head with this boy. 

There’s also, as there always seems to be when watching two people like this, that tiny pang of jealousy that quietly makes its home in Harry’s heart, sore and present, when he thinks about how he’d like to have someone like that, too. 

And lately, Harry’s just had one particular person in mind, whenever he lets himself think about it.

“S’alright, mate,” Niall assures Liam, leaning across Harry to talk to him, “s’just what happens when you fancy someone, innit? You can’t help it, really,” and Harry starts to nod before Niall turns to face him instead of Liam, and fixes him with some sort of knowing smirk. Harry furrows his brows at him, wondering if he’s missing something, before Niall stops staring at him completely and instead shifts his eyes over Harry’s shoulder. He chuckles, and Harry’s even more confused, now, and finally Niall leans close for a second to utter under his breath, “speaking of…”

Harry opens his mouth to begin to ask Niall if he’s feeling alright, and what the fuck that was supposed to mean, but he doesn’t quite get the chance.

“Alright, boys?”

Oh. Harry knows that voice. 

The speed at which he spins round to catch sight of the new addition to their group at the end of the bar is rather embarrassing, to say the least, and of course it’s made worse by Harry dropping whatever pint glass he was holding, making a very audible noise as it hit the floor.

“Louis,” he breathes, and he has to tell himself to be cool, to relax, to not be so bloody _obvious_ , for fuck’s sake, “you’re– you’re here.”

He vaguely hears Niall subduing a laugh from behind him, and perhaps a small _I told you_ , but he’s too distracted by the sight in front of him to care enough about it.

Harry doesn’t quite know why he’s so surprised to see him, he knows they said they’d see each other later, but he didn’t think it would be so soon - less than an hour, really - after they’d left class. He’s not complaining, though.

Louis looks… he looks lighter, somehow. Refreshed, perhaps. Eyes bright and alive, cheeks flushed. He’s smiling from ear to ear, as he looks across at Harry, the mood that he’s in palpable, and immediately Harry beams back at him, too - he can’t help it. It only takes Harry a little longer than usual to notice something else.

“You didn’t bring your stuff,” he says, plainly, and he’s met with blank looks from the other boys and a confused one from Louis. “To study? Like, your laptop and that. And you know it’s a Thursday, right?” Thank god Harry seems to have dragged some of his teasing ability back, coming off chilled and cheeky even if he’s getting affected by the sight of Louis alone. “You’re usually only here on Fridays.”

Louis’ brows stay furrowed, but his smile deceives the indignant look he was going for, and he scoffs before taking his usual seat at the edge of the bar. “Can’t a man just come to enjoy a nice pint without being interrogated every once in a while?” he asks, and Harry has to bite his lip to stop himself from smiling so much, positively enamoured by this boy and his scratchy, more-Northern-than-usual-accent, “Honestly, s’like the bloody gestapo in ‘ere.” 

Harry lets himself laugh fully at that one, and the other boys join in, too. Harry loves the way Louis - the way they all - seem to fit so well together, the five of them. Loves the way Louis’ standing there, joking, grinning across at him and making Harry’s breath stutter and nerves tingle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’d be lying if he said he couldn’t get used to it. 

“Whatever you say, Lou.” The words slip out of his mouth gently, softly, fondly. 

And at this point, Harry doesn’t even care about the looks he’s getting from the other lads, even Zayn and Liam, visible out of the corner of his eye, smirks and wide eyes and raised eyebrows. He can’t bring himself to, really, because Louis’ sitting there looking across at Harry like there’s no one else in the room, and Harry’s thinking about the possibility that the sole reason Louis could have come to the bar today was perhaps _just_ to see Harry, increasing more and more as the heavy seconds pass. 

“Working hard boys?”

Nick’s ever so lovely and grating voice chimes in all too soon, lifting Harry from where his gaze seemed to have locked with Louis’, and back behind him, where his all-too-diligent manager seems to have materialised from. 

“Always,” Harry replies quickly, clearing his throat where it seems to have gone a tad dry. 

Nick gives him a look that can only be directly translated as ‘entirely unconvinced’. He looks over behind Harry for a second before his calculating eyes come to meet Harry’s once again.

“Sure you’re not just flirting?”

And Harry is extremely grateful for two things in that moment; one is that the other boys seem otherwise engaged and so have managed to miss that comment, the other is that his back is to Louis, so thankfully the boy in question can’t see the _obvious_ reaction to what Nick said, and how clearly he knows it’s written on his face how right Nick is.

Thankfully, an impatient customer decides to choose that particular moment to flag Harry down from the other end of the bar, Niall having seem to have disappeared, most likely for one of his many ‘breaks’ of the shift. Harry wastes no time in speeding down to help them out, decidedly keeping his back to Louis, and Nick, at least until his blush has subsided. 

He doesn’t miss Nick’s amused cackle as he moves past him, absolutely without a doubt directed at Harry and his ever reddening cheeks. 

It’s not long later, the bar quieting down a little as the initial rush have all come in, before Harry remembers something he wanted to tell the lads about.

He makes his way down the other end of the bar again, towards where the other boys all seem to be chatting together, and clears his throat once to make sure all eyes are on him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t always sort of love holding court like this, especially with his mates. And especially with someone like Louis sitting there, watching him, a reluctant smile on his face at Harry’s silly but hopefully charming antics.

“Right boys, it’s good you’re all here, because if you’ve got plans tonight, cancel ‘em.”

He’s met with a slew of amused yet puzzled looks, particularly from Louis, who even looks slightly wary. 

“And why would we do that, dear Harold?” Niall asks, lazily sprawled against the bartop without even a glass in hand, not even attempting to look like he’s working.

“End of semester party at a friend of a friend’s,” Harry explains, and is immediately met with a dubious look from Liam. “Don’t give me that look, Liam!” he squawks across the bar, a little louder than necessary. “It’s supposed to be sick, alright? I can text you all the details and stuff. I said I’d go and that I’d bring people, so all of you are coming with me, alright? No arguments, please.”

Harry watches as Niall nods once at him, decidedly, as if he’d ever say no to a party. He looks over at Zayn and Liam in front of him, who seem to take a moment before seeming to wordlessly agree with each other to go. How they’re already at the we-make-social-agreements-together phase in the relationship is beyond Harry, but he won’t question it.

Finally, his eyes drift to Louis, and, well. 

He’s looking at him like _that_ again, all squinty eyes and soft smile and bottom lip bitten between his teeth. Head tilted slightly, like he’s enjoying watching Harry. Lovely. So, so lovely. 

“All of you,” Harry says again, looking right at him. “Right?”

Louis’ smile spreads out further, the cheekiness edge to it materialising once again, and he leans back in his chair, slowly, hands linked in front of him on the bartop. 

“Hmm…” Louis starts, one hand turning slightly so he can glance at his watch, “oh, is that the time?” he asks, just a little too exaggeratedly, and the deflection is so clear that Harry can’t even pretend to be annoyed, just amused at his less-than-stellar acting skills. “Best be off, boys, got another meeting to get to, actually, quite important, really, can’t miss it–”

Harry smirks, and rolls his eyes. “Lou _is_.”

“Yeah, so, might see ya later, lads,” he ignores Harry, except his smile is full now, so much so that Harry _knows_ he’s teasing him, knows he’s not answering him on purpose. He pushes up from the bar and starts to make his way towards the door, waving absenting at the other boys, who at a quick glance half of which seem confused, and the only half who seem to have caught onto what Louis’ doing. 

Harry chuckles at his retreating figure, utterly enamoured. “You still didn’t answer me, Lou!”

Louis glances back over his shoulder, gives Harry a wink before reaching the door, and calls back a quick “bye!” to them all before disappearing.

Harry sighs. Well, he’ll just have to wait and hope that one of the other boys drags Louis along with them. Somehow he doesn’t think it’ll be much of a challenge.

“Absolutely _pathetic,_ you two. You’re worse than Zayn and Liam over here!”

Harry turns around to find the source of the voice, sees Niall watching him, apparently utterly delighted at the situation. 

Harry grins at him, cheeks splitting, and shrugs his shoulders, because even he can’t deny the effect Louis has on him, he’s not even embarrassed about it at this point. 

Niall just shakes his head as he turns away, mutters something along the lines of “just ridiculous” at himself before Harry _accidentally_ spills a bit of beer on his shoes, and of course it’s completely unrelated to him taking the piss out of Harry and Louis. Gets him to shut up, though.

–

The sound of the door opening behind Harry disturbs the still of the bar, and after a quick glance at the clock above the pool table in the corner tells him that it is indeed past ten, Harry finishes the bit of sweeping he was half-heartedly doing under the sink as he speaks.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, swivelling round with the broom to get under the fridges, and simultaneously wondering just how badly he needs this job, “we’re actually– oh. Louis.”

It’s the second time today that Louis has surprised him by showing up at his bar, but Harry is certainly not complaining.

Louis brings the cold in with him, but his smile is warm when he looks at Harry, all sweet and soft at the edges. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he strolls in, coming to lean against the bar right opposite Harry.

“Hi,” Louis says, quietly.

“Hi,” Harry smiles back, voice low, just enough for Louis to hear. “What’re you doing here, then?” 

Louis takes that moment to exaggeratedly glance pointedly under the bartop, down by the seat he was sat at a few hours earlier. He looks up again after a second and says, “thought I left something here earlier,” lips curved around the words. He takes one more half-hearted look around and then looks across at Harry, fully smiling now, “guess not, though.”

Harry hums, amused. He’s almost certain he knows what Louis’ doing, and he decides to play along. “Yeah,” he shrugs, faux-concernedly, “guess not.” 

“Well,” Louis drawls, the attempt at being casual not exactly hard to miss, “there’s that party in a bit, anyway…” he starts, and Harry grins.

Harry furrows his brows at Louis, teasingly, “oh, yeah, there _is,_ isn’t there?”

“So, like,” Louis starts, fingers absently tapping on the surface of the bar, eyes anywhere but Harry’s, and the room seems to have gone very still, “may as well wait for you to finish up here and we can, like, uh. Go together, or something.” 

To say Harry is absolutely delighted at this suggestion would be an understatement. He may be reaching but, it seems as though Louis Tomlinson has just basically, in a roundabout way, practically asked to be Harry’s date to this party. Sort of.

“Mm, yeah,” Harry muses, “seems like that would make the most sense.” He’s beaming across at Louis who _still_ seems to be attempting to play this off as a thing of convenience rather than anything else. Harry knows this is his particular way of asking him, so he won’t call him out on it. He’ll still be giddy about it, though. 

Louis looks up at him now, eyes crinkling ever so slightly, voice soft. “Cool.”

Harry chuckles at him, because he’s just so _sweet_ , “Cool, Lou. Now, come make yourself useful and help me polish some of these glasses so I can close, and we can get out of here.”

Louis laughs at that, and the tension seems to have broken, room now full of the sound of the lovely laugh that Harry can’t get enough of. “And you say _I’m_ the slave driver, Styles,” he jokes, as he makes his way behind the bar next to Harry.

“Heyyy,” Harry protests, pouting at the other boy, “I thought we weren’t calling me that anymore?”

Louis giggles, stealing the tea towel that was just in Harry’s hands and picking up a glass to polish, “Hmm,” he hums, tapping his finger on his chin mockingly, “only when you’re not in my bad books.”

Harry snorts, grabbing another towel to polish a glass with, completely unbothered if this takes them all night at the snail pace they’re going. “Oh, so I’m in your bad books, am I? For making you polish a few measly glasses?” 

His voice rises with each word, amusement colouring his tone, he can’t help it. 

“Yep,” Louis replies, eyes on the job, and cheekiness fully detected, “suppose you’re gonna have to earn your way back into my good books somehow.”

Harry is giddy with this, this– this proper flirting that seems to be happening, he’s never seen Louis so chilled out and relaxed before, and he just loves it. “Oh, really?” he asks, leaning against the bar to watch Louis as he polishes, his own part of the job completely forgotten, “and how do you propose I do that, then?”

Louis smirks down at his hands as Harry stares at him, grinning, hoping to catch a glimmer of a response in his features. It takes Louis a moment to reply, but when he does it’s enough to wipe the smile off of Harry’s face entirely.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Louis murmurs, just under his breath, and then he just _winks_ across at Harry like it’s a totally normal thing that they do. 

Harry absolutely gapes across at him, utterly stunned at this side of him coming out, before Louis looks up and grins, completely aware of the state he’s put Harry in, it looks like. An actual menace, he is.

It takes Harry a moment to choke out a laugh, finally, shaking his head as he gets up and repositions himself next to Louis, room suddenly a lot warmer and stomach a lot tighter, and he tries not to think about how standing this close to Louis has this much of an affect on him. 

“You’re a minx, Louis Tomlinson.”

The words are uttered under a breath, in the small space between them, slowly, carefully, every syllable audible. Harry keeps facing ahead, meticulously polishing to keep himself from looking across at Louis to gauge a reaction. 

There’s soft laughter from them both, and then a comfortable silence that filters between them, for a little while, as they work through what feels like the entire bars’ worth of glassware, but Harry doesn’t mind. Usually it’s boring on his own, and he gets through it as quickly as possible, but right now… right now, having someone with him, even if they’re not talking, just in each other’s company - it’s nice.

He glances across at Louis, sees him attempting to figure out where a particular glass goes, puzzled expression on his face which is, objectively, rather adorable. 

Harry leans over, at the same time that Louis starts to turn around back to Harry, probably in defeat, and the fact that two people aren’t supposed to be at this end of the bar at once is for _exactly_ this reason, because suddenly Harry’s got Louis all pressed against the back of the bar in what anyone who walked in right now would definitely classify as a compromising position. 

“Uh,” Harry manages to get out, breath thin and throat dry, because Louis is _right there,_ lips quite literally an inch or so away, and holy fuck Harry really should stop focusing on Louis’ mouth and being so bloody obvious. 

He blinks, eyes going up to meet Louis’, and, well. That definitely wasn’t the better option. 

Louis’ gazing up at him, heavy eyelids over thin circles of blue that are almost fully eclipsed by darkness, tucked under those bloody long eyelashes; a fucking vision. Harry can make out every single freckle on his face, every little line by his eyes, the plushness of his lips; the deep pink of them. He wants to kiss him _so fucking badly._

They don’t move for a moment, the sudden space and tension between them both making it quite difficult. Harry can feel the warmth Louis radiates where their chests are pressed against each other, can feel every tiny inhale, every tiny exhale. It’s like time stops for a minute. 

And it’s when Harry feels Louis’ breath warm his own lips, sending a cool shiver down his spine, when he realises just how close they actually are, it’s then that he just. Does it.

Harry closes the gap between them with ease, taking mere seconds for his lips to touch Louis’, warm and sweet and slotting together perfectly, and then at once Harry’s brain is fried and his entire body is on fire, energy tingling beneath his skin, because he is _kissing Louis Tomlinson,_ and Louis’ kissing him back, and his hand is on his waist and his stomach is flipping and they’re in a dirty bar that stinks of beer and students but right now, Harry wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

The kiss is soft, and lasts only a moment, but it feels like longer. They part slowly, the seconds after are delicate, fragile. Harry blinks open his eyes to see Louis looking back at him, again, almost like nothing had even happened. Almost. 

“Well,” Louis is the first to speak, word a warm mumble in the little space they’ve become accustomed to, “I suppose that might do it.”

Harry feels his features transform from misty-eyed and fizzy to taught with confusion, brows drawn together and lips lifted as he stares at the other boy half in amusement.

“Do what?” he keeps his tone low, so as not to disrupt the moment.

Louis’ eyes shine, then, voice a rough whisper as he grins up at Harry. “Get you back into my good books. Obviously.”

–

The party is well on its way by the time they finally show up.

A few people Harry knows greet them both as they walk in, but for every person who just about has the capacity to string a few words together, there’s about three who look like they’re absolutely already pissed out of their minds, eyes glazed over as they manage to bump into both Harry and Louis as the two make their way inside, drunken mumbles given as an attempt at an apology. 

And it is _loud._

Fuck is it loud. The music - some variation of whatever’s on the top forty right now that sounds like has been remixed to within an inch of its capacity that Harry is ashamed to say he’s already loving - is loud enough that Harry can quite literally feel the floor pounding with it on every beat even while they were just standing outside the flat, a heavy thump that seems to buzz through his entire body.

It’s hard to say how many people there are in the dimly lit room, but it feels like it’s the entirety of the fucking second year, all celebrating the start of the holidays and the end of the first semester in what genuinely looks like the biggest party Harry’s been to so far this term. 

There’s people hanging outside windows, using the fire escape as overflow space and probably to smoke too if the smell that hit him when they walked in is any indication. People are dancing, everywhere he looks, finding or creating space on tables, chairs, sofas; the floor itself positively packed. And he’s also pretty sure there’s a major beer pong tournament that he can see going on in the kitchen that he’s only half gutted he didn’t get to take part in.

Because, granted, it may have taken Harry a tad longer than usual to close up the bar, but how bothered can he _honestly_ be that he missed the peak of the party when the reason it took him so long to get there was because time was otherwise spent kissing a gorgeous boy against the bar, rather than put away some ratty old pint glasses? Not that bothered, is the truth.

“D’you want a drink?” 

He’s drawn from his surveying of the party by the sound of Louis’ voice right next to his ear, his chest up against Harry’s arm where he’s leaning up to shout the question, slight hand cupped lightly over Harry’s cheekbone, hot to the touch, to make sure he hears. 

“Yeah!” he shouts back, nodding and hoping that’s what Louis was asking when really he can’t be sure considering they’re standing right next to one of many speakers dotted around.

Louis’ face splits into a smile, then, and Harry gives him a questioning look. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Louis mouths, after a moment, his accent detectable even when Harry can’t hear him. He’s shaking his head to himself, and if the lights were a little brighter perhaps Harry could make out the blush that he’s almost positive is forming on Louis’ cheeks right about now. 

Harry grins at him, and then snakes an arm around the other boys’ waist, pulling him closer towards him, giddy and giggling because whatever that was it was fucking adorable and also, he’s really bloody happy right now. 

Louis just about trips where Harry’s grabbed him, unexpecting of it, and he ends up falling back against Harry’s chest, both of them against the wall now, already hot and sweaty in the claustrophobic room.

“Oi!” he yells over the noise, playfulness colouring his tone just beautifully, “stop manhandling me and get us a drink, bloody hell!”

Harry lets out a cackle at the indignant voice Louis’ put on, and then leads them both to the kitchen where he’s hoping there’s still some alcohol left, his hand resting heavily on Louis’ hip as they walk together, suddenly incapable of keeping his hands off Louis. It sounds ridiculous, but now he’s had a taste of Louis, he can’t get enough, can’t help but want to keep looking at him, touching him, kissing him.

Harry doesn’t know what that kiss means for them, whatever it was, all he knows is that at the moment he’s standing next to a boy he really fucking fancies, who’s handing him a cheap beer as they tuck away in the tiny corner of the shitty student kitchen together, with a cheeky grin on his face, at a mental party that at any other time he’d be fully engaging in, but for right now all he’s focused on - all he wants to be focused on - is Louis.

Harry leans down to Louis’ ear level once they’ve both got a drink, mouth grazing his ear as he speaks, and hand still at its home on Louis’ hip, unmoving. “Cheers, Lou.”

And he _feels_ Louis’ shiver, hears the small intake of breath, and can’t help but feel a little smug. He also can’t help what he does next; it’s just out of impulse, really. 

The skin of Louis’ neck is cool where Harry brushes his lips against it, ever so lightly, a thin sheen of sweat starting to form in the heat of the room. The taste is sweet, almost, the smell sharp and bitter, and Harry finds it utterly intoxicating, finds _Louis_ utterly intoxicating.

 _“Fuck,”_ comes out on a breathy sigh from Louis, and Harry’s lips curve into a smile against Louis’ skin; he’s never heard Louis make a sound like that before, it was almost a whimper. 

Harry lifts his head to see Louis hazy-eyed, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his forehead, face all lit up in stark electric blue by some neon lamp behind them. His breathing is heavy, and so is Harry’s; the heat of it all is a bit much, all of a sudden. 

Harry lets his hold fall from Louis’ hip, which seems to stir Louis a little bit, but after a moment Harry’s hand finds Louis and he links them immediately, causing what looks like a surprised smile to form across Louis’ face.

Harry leans in once more, hand already tugging Louis towards him, towards the rest of the room. 

“Come and dance with me,” he whispers, voice eager even to his own ears. 

And Harry was hesitant about this, he won’t lie, because Louis doesn’t exactly strike him as the dancing type, however it’s not two seconds before Louis’ the one dragging him over, any pre-prepared plead or words of encouragement on the tip of Harry’s tongue completely forgotten, as he’s led off towards the makeshift dance floor. 

–

It’s a little bit later, now. Or is it? Harry’s not quite sure.

It was somewhere between bumping into the other lads almost immediately after making it out of the kitchen, and the umpteenth song that they’d all danced to, that Harry had lost Louis. 

One second he was there, the next he wasn’t, and at that point Harry was happily onto his third drink, (or maybe fourth?), and didn’t think much of it. 

Now, though, well. Now he’s watching Zayn and Liam shamelessly getting off in front of him, with only as much disgust as one can portray when they’re as happily buzzed as Harry is right now, and he’s starting to feel a little jealous, too, wondering where the hell his boy, (who - alright - is not technically his boy _yet,_ but like, sort of) has gotten to. 

“Hey!” he bellows, turning to face Niall who in contract looks entirely unbothered by their mates snogging right there next to them, “You seen Louis anywhere?”

The words come out a little bit (okay, perhaps a lot) louder than how he had intended in his head, but he’s confident Niall of all people won’t mind a bit of extra volume.

His mate shrugs and leans closer, somehow sounding completely sober despite the sheer number of drinks Harry has seen him down in the space of about half an hour tonight, response alert and immediate. “Uh, dunno, Haz,” he starts, eyes wandering around the room behind Harry, while Harry does the same, “I think maybe he went– Oh.”

The sudden change in tone and volume of Niall’s voice causes Harry’s head to whip straight back to him, eagerness in his own words very present. “What? D’you see him?”

Niall’s looking directly behind Harry, eyes focused and brows furrowed, “Yeah, I– Hm. S’a bit weird.” And the next words are a mumble, really, hard for Harry to catch. “Guess they’re back on, then.”

Harry’s stomach drops without warning, and he’s getting impatient, now, wishing whoever’s shoved up behind him would bloody well _move_ so he could see what Niall can. “What’s weird Niall? Who are you talking about?” _Are you talking about Louis?_

“Nothing, nothing, s’just…” he trails off as he watches, making Harry even more anxious, until finally he just manages to turn around himself to actually see what the hell Niall’s on about.

He almost wishes he hadn’t.

There’s a ringing buzz in Harry’s ears, and he feels this raw burst of heat flare up within himself, suddenly, skin on fire, throat going dry and jaw going tight as he stands there and just. Watches.

Niall’s quick to step in, obviously trying to take his attention away from it. “Haz, I mean– it’s probably nothing, you don’t know–”

Harry stops him, words heavy. “It’s fine Niall. I don’t care.”

And if that isn’t the biggest, fattest lie that Harry’s ever told.

Because there, across the room, mere metres away really, is Louis and some guy. A guy that, per Niall’s comment, Harry is assuming is the ex.

And it’s not even the way they’re holding each other; Louis’ hands resting on his waist, the other guy cradling Louis’ face, cupping his cheeks so intimately like that, and then coming to rest easily on his shoulders, like it’s the most natural act to them both. It’s not even their proximity, either; bodies angled as though they’re fully touching, faces not far apart as they talk animatedly to each other, words far too quiet and room far too loud for Harry to catch any of it. 

No, it’s none of that.

What gets to Harry - really, _really_ gets to him - is the way they’re looking at each other. They’ve both got this glint in their eyes as they speak, this warm, content, intimate expression, something that Harry can only really identify as deep familiarity, but it’s more than that. 

It’s the way they seem lost in each other, completely unaware of their surroundings. The way they stand so close so as not to miss a word the other says. It’s the way Louis’ now laughing that wonderful, healing laugh at this other boy, this _ex_ boy, who doesn’t deserve it. The way his eyes are crinkling at the corners as he reacts to something the other guy has told him, in just the way that _Harry_ adores. 

It’s when the other guy starts pulling Louis towards him that Harry finally has to turn away.

He’s got about a million emotions thrumming through his veins right now, hot and heavy, and he’s suddenly aware of it all, his heartbeat drumming in his ears, breaths short and sharp, hands even shaking, slightly, and he really has to fucking pull himself together.

He knows what this is, even though he’s never felt it before. How can he not. He’s jealous, mixed with a little bit of hurt, and perhaps some shock, too. But it’s mostly jealousy. Seething, red hot jealousy. 

It’s not– he _knows_ Louis isn’t his, isn’t some possession that he can get pissed off about someone else taking, but it’s just. He’s never felt like this before, the way he feels about Louis, never had feelings this strong and visceral as he does with him. He knows he’s being ridiculous, though, they’re not even dating, let alone together. They’ve only had one kiss, for fuck’s sake. Just one tiny little fucking kiss that meant nothing, really. 

He feels a hand rest tentatively on his shoulder, and he’s about to shrug it off before he feels them squeeze, turns slightly and realises it’s Niall, who sounds like he’s trying to get Harry’s attention.

“–right, Harry?” he can only catch the end of what Niall’s said, mind somewhere else entirely for god knows how long, eyes refocusing on the now a little roomier dance floor. 

“What? Sorry, I, uh, didn’t hear you,” he says, trying to keep his voice level, calm.

Niall looks at him, stands right in front of him, both hands on his shoulders in a way that’s sort of grounding. “I said, are you alright? Just relax, yeah. I didn’t–” he pauses here, eyes flickering behind Harry for a second before coming back to meet Harry’s, “It could be nothing, you know? I didn’t see anything, Haz, like I don’t think they–”

“It doesn’t matter, Niall, he can do what he wants. Doesn’t matter to me, ” Harry dismisses, shrugging casually at his mate and trying to make it seem as though his stomach isn’t tightening more and more by the second at the thought of Louis kissing that guy. He has no right to these feelings, but he’s overwhelmed by them, and completely unsure of what the fuck to do. He’s never been in this position before.

“Okay but Harry, do ya wanna maybe sit down for a minute, take a breather, maybe? Just relax, man, you’re shaking.”

Harry balls his hands into fists, tries to pull himself the fuck together. “I’m fine, I just need a drink,” he replies, voice a little weaker, a little more weary than before. He is fine. He has to be fine.

Niall sighs, and Harry knows he’s given up on pushing him for now. “If you’re sure, mate,” he says, sounding entirely unconvinced, which Harry had expected. Niall knows him too well to not realise he’s not himself at all right now. But, it’s because of that that he’s letting Harry off without pressing the matter further, and it’s because of _that_ that he’s one of Harry’s favourite people.

“Yeah, I am sure,” he says, and the words sound solid even though they don’t feel it. Harry looks back to see if he can spot them, and, yep; still chatting away like they just were. “Everyone’s having fun, Niall,” and his eyes don’t leave Louis, “let’s go join in.”

–

It’s a little while later when Harry finds himself back in the kitchen, a couple more drinks down him and lot more sense out of him. There’s a few people milling about, talking, the party’s died down considerably, though, early hour of the morning getting to everyone, it seems, music low and energy even lower. 

He doesn’t know where Niall’s got to, probably off with someone, maybe even gone home with them, too. 

Hm. 

Maybe Harry should go home with someone. That’s not a bad idea.

Or maybe he should just get with someone; anyone, really, maybe that’ll show him that the way he’s feeling about Louis really isn’t that deep, that kissing people is just something that happens, sometimes, that it never has to mean anything. Usually never does. It’s just a thing that people do to feel something for a moment, and then it’s over and it’s done. Yeah, that’s definitely not a bad idea. 

(In hindsight, it’s probably the worst idea that Harry’s ever had. And he’s had a lot of bad ideas.)

It doesn’t take him long to find someone to test his theory.

“Hi there,” a guy approaches him with a wide smile that makes Harry think he’s used to getting what he wants. He’s tall, taller than Harry, even. Styled blond hair, strong jaw, dark brown eyes, and a built body. Objectively very attractive, and entirely not Harry’s type. 

Doesn’t matter, though, does it?

Harry smirks back, lifting slightly up from his position of leaning against the wall in the back of the badly lit kitchen. “Hi, I’m Harry. And you’re gorgeous.”

The guy raises his eyebrows in possible surprise, or perhaps it’s satisfaction. Either way, the words sound far too saccharine and superficial coming out of Harry’s mouth. He ignores it.

“Confident one, aren’t you?” Blond boy chuckles, and the laugh is too deep, too loud, too abrasive, not nearly delicate or honey-laced enough for Harry to enjoy. He ignores that, too.

The boy steps closer, right into Harry’s space, and Harry lets him. He puts a hand, a much too large hand, on Harry’s waist, grip tight and possessive, almost immediately, but Harry ignores it again. Harry nods lazily at the boy, kind of ready to get this over with, already bored of it. 

And apparently a nod is all the encouragement it takes for this guy, whose name Harry still doesn’t know, to lean in fast and with absolutely no finesse, lips rough against Harry’s own, tongue already dipping inside Harry’s mouth, too overpowering and desperate, and the whole thing is just wrong.

For a second, Harry tries to enjoy it, he does, tries to fucking convince himself that this kiss is the same as the one he shared with Louis earlier, that there’s no difference at all. Tries to convince himself that this is nice, that this is what he wants. And then he comes to his senses.

_What the fuck is he doing?_

_Fuck,_ Harry thinks, as he’s still kissing this random boy who doesn’t even _compare_ to Louis, not in the slightest.

_Fuck._

It’s not what he wants. Of course it’s fucking not. Because of course, what he wants, plain and simply, is Louis.

They’re probably not even a minute into the kiss when Harry pushes the guy away, off of him, wondering why the fuck he’s being such an idiot. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry curses, eyes squeezed shut and head against the wall, as far as possible away, and it’s more to himself than the guy, but it’s probably a bit shit to hear. 

“What? What’s the matter?” he asks, a little pissed off.

Harry shakes his head, still unable to open his eyes, realises how much of an idiot he is. “Sorry, I–” he looks up at the guy, now, eyes wide, voice thin and out of breath, “I don’t know why the fuck I just did that, I wasn’t–”

Harry stops talking as soon as his eyes flicker to something just over the guy’s shoulder. 

_Fuck._

Louis, of course it’s Louis, because that’s just Harry’s fucking luck, is standing, staring at them, and he looks… Harry doesn’t even have a word for it, honestly, all he can say is that Louis looks like how Harry _felt_ earlier on in the night; face pale and blank, mouth half open, frozen where he stands with his arms hanging limply at his sides, the image of shock, betrayal, and sadness all in one. 

This is exactly the moment Harry knows he’d fucked everything up.

“Louis, hey, listen–” Harry dives out from behind the blond boy, unsure of what he’s going to say to Louis but knows he should fucking say _something,_ anything, really, because that looked bad and it _was_ bad and he shouldn’t have done it, why the _fuck_ did he do it?

And in the time it takes for Harry to stride the three steps over to him, Louis’ expression changes in an instant, eyes going dark, brows knitting together harshly, jaw tightening and cheeks starting to redden; Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him even close to this before. 

“Don’t even fucking touch me.”

The words are pure venom, spat at Harry viciously before he turns around and storms out, the rage in the air fucking palpable, and the whole absurdity of the last minute and a half runs circles around Harry’s head, leaving him in shock and frustration, so much so that it takes him a good second to get his shit together to follow Louis out, try to desperately explain himself.

Louis had gone in the direction of the front room, and so Harry legs it out of the kitchen, eyes darting around in just enough time to catch Louis slipping out the door to the flat, leaving the party entirely. 

Harry makes his way towards the exit, eyes only on the door, and it’s like he’s got tunnel vision or something, he’s never felt this determined in his life.

“Woah, woah, woah, what’s the matter, where’re you–”

Liam’s voice is easily recognisable to Harry, and he knows that tone; that caring, almost paternal tone he takes when he’s worried about someone.

“Not now, Liam,” Harry snaps out nonetheless, eyes ahead, finally reaching the door, and pulling it open with ease before turning around quickly, “I’ll explain later, alright?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead heads off and sprints down the two flights of stairs, hoping upon hope that every time he turns a corner he’ll see the back of Louis’ head, be able to catch up to him, to stop him, to explain.

It’s not until Harry’s outside that he finally catches a glimpse of him; small, fast paced figure easy to spot under the hazy yellow street lamps that light up the paths along campus. 

_“Louis!”_ Harry yells, jogging to catch up, completely disregarding the fact that it’s probably about four in the morning, pitch black outside except for the dim lights, rain already starting to trickle down, and that everyone in the halls surrounding them is most likely asleep. “Louis, wait, please!”

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” comes Louis’ monotone response, dry and bitter and easily audible from where Harry’s only half a stride behind him, over the raindrops beginning to hit the pavement.

Harry reaches out, grabs Louis’ arm to stop him walking, stop him walking away from Harry, from the situation that he has so thoroughly managed to fuck up.

Louis stills in his movements, then, finally, but stays faced away from Harry, his wrist rigid under Harry’s hold, and Harry squeezes it, gently, a silent plead. _“Please,_ Lou– let me– let me explain,” he breathes, words coming out thin, utterly desperate, lungs tight with expulsion of energy and the intensity of the moment. 

Louis gives a little, then, stiffness loosening under Harry’s grip, shoulders sagging as he releases a breath in front of Harry, a white plume of air rising above them both, and Harry suddenly realises how cold the air is around them; he hadn’t noticed.

“Louis, I–” Harry starts, but he doesn’t get to finish.

“What?” Louis snaps, voice sharp as a knife as he turns around in Harry’s grip and stares him square in the face, eyes dark and bloodshot and cheeks violently flushed, dampened by the dizzle, chest heaving heavily over and over, and the sight alone positively _breaks_ Harry, because he never wanted to do _this,_ not at all. “What is there to say? Really, I’d love to know.”

The fierce sarcasm just makes Harry feel worse, and he knows it was supposed to, but it still stings. He takes a breath, fingers still inexplicably circled around Louis’ wrist. “It was stupid, Lou,” he explains, stepping a little closer, tenatatively, “I was stupid, I thought–”

“No, Harry, _I’m_ the stupid one,” Louis argues, voice crackly and raw and _hurt,_ and Harry fucking hates himself for it. “So fucking _stupid,_ ” Louis says again as he turns away, quieter this time, and Harry’s close enough to see the tears forming in the other boy’s eyes, close enough that he could wipe one away, if he were brave enough. 

Harry feels helpless, and confused, has no idea how to explain his shitty assumption and his shitty reaction to it, none of his all around shitty behaviour.

“Louis, I’m– it was a mistake, I don’t know what the fuck I was do–”

Louis scoffs, snatching his arm back from Harry’s grip, voice a sarcastic snarl, “ah, right, so you’re sayin’ you _didn’t_ know what you were doing when you chose to snog some random guy right in front of the entire party, right in front of _me,_ right after _we’d_ just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, eyes to the cold, grey, wet ground. 

There’s a beat of silence between them, the only sound the steady, heavy rainfall surrounding them. Harry at a loss for words, it becoming clear to him just how badly he’d misjudged everything, unable to even think of where to start explaining before Louis speaks up again.

“D’you know what? ‘S’my fault,” he mutters, quieter, barely audible. “I should have expected this from you.” 

And then all thoughts of an explanation go out the window, instead the steady pangs of sorrow turn into anger at Louis’ words, trickling icily through Harry’s veins at the implication.

“What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?” he asks, gruffly, running a rough hand through his sodden fringe, trying his hardest to conceal the hurt in his voice, in his chest, at the thought that Louis’ just like everyone else, everyone who thinks they know Harry, but don’t. Not really.

Louis laughs, but there’s no humour to it. “It means that you– you know, you had me fooled for a little while there, Styles!” Harry thinks he catches a stray tear trail down Louis’ cheek, unnoticed, but perhaps it’s just the rain, “but you’re just the same as everyone says you are,” he throws his hands up, defeatedly, grim smile on his face, accusatory voice cracking on the last sentence, “just the fuckin’ _same!”_

“Yeah?” Harry hisses out, suddenly, throat tight and vision slightly blurred as he moves closer to the boy, their eyes meeting in a cold, hard gaze, “and what’s that then, Louis? What do they say?”

Louis furrows his brows, wet, icy blue flickering between Harry’s stare. “They say that you just like to play stupid little games with people, that you don’t actually care about anyone but yourself,” Louis swallows, and Harry’s close enough to see his nose and cheeks reddening by the second, eyes streaming, lips bitten harshly by the cold, “that you’re selfish, and an arsehole, and–”

He trails off, but if Harry’s going to listen to it, he needs to hear it all.

“And _what,_ Louis?” he seethes, throat a little thick, stare focused on the boy turned ball of fire in front of him.

“And that you should be avoided, completely and utterly avoided, unless you want your fuckin’ heart broken.”

Harry thinks he might feel his heart rip a hole through his ribs at the words, spat out so easily by Louis, as if they mean nothing, as if _Harry_ means nothing. He chews a lip between his teeth as he stares at Louis; the other boy curled into himself, slightly, now, chest heaving, expresion hard and impenetrable. 

“And so you believe that, then?” Harry argues, over the rain, heavier by the minute, voice now cracked and raw even to his own ears, because he can’t pretend anymore, can’t pretend like this isn’t hurting him like it is. “You believe everything they say? Even after all the time we spent together, everything we told each other, everything I told you? Stuff that I’d never– _never_ told anyone else? After all that?” 

He can feel the tears making their way down his face, hot and wet and heavy, and Harry wipes them away frustratedly, angrily. He’s upset, he can’t help it, but he wish he fucking could.

The next words are said under a breath, hardly audible in comparison to Harry’s speech, practically a whisper although Harry’s just close enough to hear it. “I didn’t,” Louis admits, voice broken, like a fractured stone ready to crumble any minute, “but I do now.”

And that. _That_ is what truly cracks Harry’s heart into a million little pieces, any ounce of anger left forgotten, as every tiny broken part gets strewn about on the flooding pavement between them, red and bloody and raw. 

“Please,” Harry starts, eyes squeezed shut as he shakes his head slightly, face damp with tears mixed with rain, chest gone heavy and tight, “Please don’t say that, Lou,” he pleads, a constant stream of _this isn’t happening this isn’t happening this isn’t happening_ playing over and over in his mind like background noise, because this feeling - whatever it is - is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. 

Harry opens his eyes, then, and Louis’ looking at him, eyes piercing and present and _blue,_ and he can’t tell if it’s regret, or disappointment, or something blurred in between. Harry doesn’t know, he doesn’t bloody know a thing anymore, because it’s four in the morning and he’s standing outside in the freezing cold rain, crying his eyes out at a boy that he’s just let slip through his fingers.

“It doesn’t matter,” Louis says, then, voice suddenly flat, dismissive. “None of it does.” He stares Harry right in the eyes when he says it, hands shaking slightly at his sides, the only movement that Harry catches that leads him to believe that Louis isn’t as calm as he seems. 

“It was only ever just tutoring with you. That’s all it was. And now it’s done.” Louis gives Harry a slow once over, a clear resolve on his face, before stepping away, out of his space, of _their_ space. “We’re _done,_ Harry.”

The words are like tiny bullets, and Harry can’t take them, can’t believe that after all this time, this is what they’ve come to, that this is _it._

He grabs Louis’ arm before he can fully turn away, a sudden strength and conviction filtering through his hushed words, mouth suddenly pressed right up next to Louis’ ear, skin cold under his hot touch, speech quick and insistent, desperate, “It was never just tutoring and you know that, Louis.”

Harry feels Louis’ skin prickle under his lips, hears the boy’s breath skip, arm going slack and heavy in his hold. Louis leans the slightest bit back where he slots against Harry’s chest, and they’re touching again, properly, _finally._

Harry still can’t see Louis’ face, but he can hear him take a deep, shaky inhale, can feel his pulse quickening under his fingertips, can feel the vibration of Louis speak against his chest, _“Do I?”_

It’s such a simple question, an opening for Harry to explain himself, explain everything, tell him exactly how he feels, and yet.

And yet, Harry doesn’t even know what to say, how to even begin to tell Louis… how to tell Louis that it stopped being just tutoring the second he got the first genuine smile out of him, the second he knew he was responsible for making him laugh, bringing him joy even for a moment. 

That it stopped being just tutoring when he started genuinely wanting to know more about Louis, about his life, his past, his future. 

That it stopped being just tutoring when they stayed up in Louis’ bed that one night talking about just that. 

That it stopped being just tutoring the second he stopped seeing him as Louis, the quiet guy from his seminar and started seeing him as _Louis_ , his new, somewhat reluctant friend. 

That it stopped being just tutoring the second he started wanting them to be something much, much more than that. 

So instead he says nothing, because he can’t. Not right now, anyway. Not in this state.

For a moment, the only sound, the only feeling, is their shared breaths, inhale, exhale, over and over until they slow down, until everything seems to settle. 

“Yeah,” Louis croaks out, painfully so, pushing off from where he’s still leaning against Harry, delicate wrist slipping as easily out of Harry’s hold as it came into it, “that’s what I thought.”

There’s a moment between them, then, where Louis turns around to look at Harry, just for a moment, almost expectantly, like he’s giving Harry one last chance. His shiny, bloodshot eyes are lit up so beautifully that it almost makes Harry upset to think that he may never get to see Louis like this again, this close, this _open_. 

Harry wants to reach out, wants to apologise again, over and over, wants to tell Louis how he feels, wants to do everything all at once, but he just… can’t. He doesn’t think anything can fix this, not immediately, and the thought itself sends a pang of panic straight to Harry’s limbic system. So instead, he shuts his eyes and does nothing. 

It’s maybe less than a minute before he finally hears Louis sigh, quietly, defeatedly. Harry doesn’t want to think about how he must look, right now, all small and broken and _sad._

Harry finally hears Louis start to shuffle away, then, and, against all impulses, he just… lets him. 

Harry just lets him go.

–

Harry doesn’t usually smoke. 

Not unless he’s drunk off his face, or bored beyond belief. Or, as it turns out, unless it’s his last resort when he’s trying to get his mind off of something. 

As he stands outside the bar in the trickle of rain, he inhales quickly, roughly, lets the heavy smoke pollute his lungs and lets the nicotine and petrichor cloud his senses, just for a second, mind light and hazy due to the long time it’s been since he’s last had a cigarette. It doesn’t help, though, not really, it’s sort of only for a minute that is mind is elsewhere, focussed on nothing but the burn in his chest, until it inevitably wanders back to the person that’s been occupying it as of late.

Which is, of course, Louis.

Harry doesn’t know what to do about it all. It’s been a couple of days since– well, since that night. They’ve passed painfully slowly, Harry managing to make up an excuse each day to himself (and to Liam) as to why he hasn’t attended any of the last Philosophy lectures of the semester. 

It’s not because Harry doesn’t want to see Louis - he does. It’s more that Harry knows Louis won’t want to see him. So he’s kept his distance. It’s also due to the fact that he doesn’t know what he’d say, how he’d even begin to try and repair whatever fragile fragment of a relationship they had beforehand, before anything had happened. Doesn’t know what he could say that could make Louis listen, keep him from walking away again.

Harry stubs his cigarette out, against the hard brick wall, leaving an ashy mark against the stark red of the brick, at hip height. He lets the butt slip from his fingertips, stepping on it once before pushing off the wall, and turning to walk back into the bar.

He combs a hand through his now-overgrown hair to shake some of the water out, making his way inside hastily as he at least attempts to appear as though he was keeping track on how long he was actually taking for his ten minute break.

“Oh, Haz,” he hears, as he slips behind the bar, lifting his eyes to see Niall looking at him expectantly, in the middle of sweeping the floor whilst the bar isn’t too busy.

It’s the first time he’s seen Niall since that evening, their shifts not overlapping, and Harry obviously steering very clear of his apartment building since then. He doesn’t quite know what’s in store for him.

Harry clears his throat, picks up a cloth and starts wiping the bar down, anything to keep his mind occupied. “Alright, mate?” he asks, eyes down at the bar top and tone striving for something casual, “how was the rest of your weekend then?”

He can see Niall out of the corner of his eye still his movements, can feel the other boy’s eyes on him where he halfheartedly tries his best to look busy, knows he can see right through him.

“Should be asking you that question, really,” Niall says, sympathetic lilt to his voice, and it’s said lowly, just so that none of the customers can hear. Harry sighs, slightly. He didn’t want to talk about all of this, but now he supposes he has to.

He turns to Niall, hoping his expression is something resembling defiant although he hasn’t got much confidence in that. “It was alright, yeah,” his voice has gone all airy and thin, much too cheery for it to sound sincere, even to his own ears. “You?”

Niall fixes him with that _look,_ the one he’s seen loads before, the one where it’s clear he’s not taking any of the bullshit Harry’s trying to give him.

“Harry.”

“Niall.”

Niall sighs, exasperated at Harry’s behaviour, probably, stepping closer. “Tell me the truth. What happened? I heard… some stuff, and Liam said he saw you run off. Have you spoken to–”

“No,” Harry replies, definitively. “No I haven’t, and I doubt I will, to be honest, Niall.” Harry shifts his gaze to his hands as he sighs, inspects his nails so he doesn’t have to look Niall in the eye, “don’t think he really wants to speak to me, anyway.”

Niall says nothing from beside him, for a moment, the air thick in the room as the memories from that night seem to gloss between them, Niall probably trying to piece it all together. 

“Harry…” he says, voice wary and low, “what did you do?”

And Harry supposes this was coming, supposes he’d have to explain himself at some point; if not to Louis then at least to his friends. It takes a while, though, for him to gather his thoughts, for the words to align in the way Harry needs them to, for him to fully understand what happened himself. 

After he’s finished, Niall just stares at the ground. 

“Fuck, Harry,” he breathes, after a moment, shoulders slack and hands braced on the bar, eyes focussed on a single point just in front of him and he seems to digest the shitty reality of Harry’s actions, his life. 

“It was stupid, I know.”

Niall balks at him, then, eyes rising to stare at Harry with a shocked expression. “Yeah, suppose you could say that again. Jesus.”

Harry’s brows furrow under the scrutiny, and he feels his defence building up, his stomach turning with the difficulty of it all. “Alright, Niall, no need to remind me. I’m very much aware that I’ve practically ruined any bloody chance I had with him, okay? I don’t need you telling me–”

“So what are you gonna do to fix it, then?” Niall asks, or rather, interrupts Harry, arms crossed and brows raised, the image of expectation.

Harry frowns at him, momentarily lacking words to use to respond to Niall, because in all honesty, he has no idea. “What– I don’t, uh, I’m not sure anything I could say would–”

Niall rolls his eyes as soon as Harry opens his mouth it seems, exasperation hardly hidden. “Oh, _Harry,_ ” he groans, throwing a tea towel onto the floor in apparent frustration, “if you think that there’s no chance, that– that you’re just gonna _give up,_ now, then you’re even worse than I thought!”

Harry feels anxious suddenly, thinking about the situation, about Louis, about what he can possibly do to fix it. He has nothing. “Niall, it’s not that simple,” he tries to explain, voice tired and thin, “I don’t think there’s anything I _can_ do.”

“Bullshit, Harry, come _on,”_ Niall barks, seemingly rather passionate about the situation, more than Harry had realised, “you like him right?”

Harry blinks, hard, word coming easily. “Yes.”

“And you want to be with him, yeah?” 

Harry opens his eyes to look at his mate, chest constricting at the question, at how quickly his answer comes. “Yes. Yeah, obviously, Niall, but I’ve fucked it up, now, there’s no–”

“So what,” Niall starts to repeat, stressing the words, staring Harry straight in the eye as he says it, “are you gonna do to fix it, Harry?”

Harry sighs, wipes a hand down his face as he stands there behind the bar, trying to figure out how he’s managed to cause such a mess, trying to figure out how on earth he’s going to get himself out of it.

“I don’t know yet, Niall,” he finally says, voice soft, a defeated whisper. “I just don’t know.”

–

His mum knows something is up as soon as he steps through the front door on the first day of Christmas break.

“Harry?” he hears, as he drags his duffle bag through the hallway, bringing with it the chill from the late Northern winter evening. “That you, love?”

Harry knows he has about three seconds to plaster a smile on his face and pretend like he hadn’t just been listening to his worryingly lengthy sad playlist whilst fighting back a lump in his throat and stray tears for the whole drive home from Uni, and it’s a task he soon realises is much trickier than he had originally thought.

“Yeah,” he breathes, attempting to add a cheerful tone to it, clearing his throat once he hears the word come out all croaky, already thinking of excuses as to why his mouth is so dry (he hasn’t used his voice in a little while; it must just be the cold; he’s coming down with something) to avoid the actual reason behind it. “‘M home.”

The achingly familiar smell of scented candles and a burning wood fire combined with whatever his mum’s got in the oven for dinner almost sets Harry off again, only rescued by the sight of his mum appearing in the hallway, flushed cheeks and warm eyes, arms outstretched and an easy grin on her face. 

He doesn’t say a word before he finds himself curled up in his mother’s embrace, all notions of keeping a strong resolve forgotten when he sees her, her arms wrapping around him automatically as he nestles into her chest, too tall and big now so that he has to crouch down quite a bit, but Harry doesn’t care. The few feet between them is gone in an instant because sometimes, Harry’s come to realise, all you really need is a lovely, warm hug from your mum to make everything feel a bit better, even just for a little while.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he hears, Anne’s soothing, concerned voice a hushed whisper against his hair where a soft hand strokes it, comforting him, “Is everything alright?”

Harry breathes out, a long, heavy breath, face pressed against her shoulder, eyes screwed shut so as to keep this moment, treasure the feeling, just for as long as he can. 

“Missed you, mum,” he mumbles, ignoring the question, and it’s quiet enough for him to faintly hear the sounds of cheerful Christmas music floating through the house, wanting so badly to feel in the spirit for it, rather than whatever this feeling is. “S’nice to be home.”

“Darling boy,” she consoles, and just her gentle voice is enough to make Harry feel minutely better than he had a few minutes ago, “It’s lovely to have you back, too. We all missed you very much.” 

Harry smiles, feels himself relax against her, her familiar smell and warmth the best welcome he could have asked for, especially after how the past few days have panned out. 

He lets go slowly, gently, leans back in her hold, and he hadn’t realised he’d shed a tear until his mum is wiping it away, thumb soft on his cheek as if he was a little kid again. He quickly wipes at his eyes, hoping to get rid of any more that may have escaped without his knowledge, squeezing his eyes shut and suddenly feeling the weight of the day and the drive come down on him fully all at once.

He chances a glance at his mum, who’s looking at him with a concerned yet reassuring expression, like she knows something is up but doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, at least not right now, anyway. He knows she’ll quiz him about this mini-breakdown sooner or later during the holiday.

“Hungry?” she asks, encouragingly, probably trying to get his mind off his troubles, squeezing his elbows where her hands have come to rest. She smiles at him, simply, and he’s grateful that she doesn’t press further - knows he wouldn’t even know where to begin, anyway, especially right now, like this. 

Harry shakes his head, softly, eyelids getting heavier by the minute, craving a hot shower and his own bed, and perhaps to sleep for the rest of the break so that he doesn’t have to confront any of his problems at all. “No thanks, mum,” he replies, hiking his bag up further on his shoulder where it had slipped, eyes drifting to the staircase next to them, “think I’m just gonna have an early one tonight. Tell the others I’ll see them in the morning?”

His mum nods, just like that, and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek after. “Alright, love. Maybe have a bath, too, that might make you feel a bit better. Get the cold out of you, anyway. Maybe we can have a little chat in the morning?” She rubs her hands up and down his arms for a moment, before squeezing him once again, and then letting him go. 

“Okay. Night, mum.”

She stands in the doorway to the kitchen and watches as he starts to ascend the staircase, a soft smile on her lips. “Night, H. Love you.”

He smiles briefly at her before turning and dragging his heavy feet the rest of the way up the plush, carpeted stairs, a far cry from any uni accommodation. God, he’s trying to shake all thoughts of uni and _him_ and here Harry is getting reminded of them both by something as mundane as a set of stairs. Pathetic. He sighs as he makes his way up, body sagging with exhaustion and sadness and what feels like everything in between in the darkness of the path to his room. 

After a quick, hot bath, per his mum’s suggestion, Harry gets into bed, crawling under the warm, soft sheets, listening to the whistle of the wind outside his creaky old window while he lets his mind rest, trying his hardest to keep his mind clear and neutral.

As it happens, the way it has always seemed to for the last few months, Harry ends up falling asleep, to his - for once - dismay, to the memory of pale blue eyes and soft, silky brown hair, plush, pink lips and a high, twinkly laugh, all of which end up floating their way easily and slotting comfortably right into his dreams, just as they always manage to do.

–

Harry is, well, not sober. Is a way one could put it.

Of course, he’d spent the majority part of the holiday drunk, that was true, what with the numerous family friend’s Christmas parties, visiting his cousins and aunts and uncles for lunches that turn into parties, both of which had free flowing alcohol that seemingly never had a cut-off point, and of course going down the local with some old school friends which would result in him coming home in the early hours of the morning barely remembering his own name, let alone a certain someone else’s. 

All in all, his tactics to not think about _him,_ to not think about all of his problems, really, had been working out great so far. 

Sure, he’d had a few texts from Niall and Liam here and there, probing and prying about how he is, clear that they’re really wondering about how _the situation_ is, as Harry’s started to refer it it as, with absolutely no finesse at all, but with a few texts here and there - ‘I’m fine, thanks, how are you mate? ’; ‘Yeah good thanks, enjoying the break. How’s the family? X’ - he’d successfully kept all thoughts of boys and certain _situations_ out of his head, his best mates ultimately giving up hinting at wanting to talk about it when Harry made it clear he really didn’t want to. After all, what’s the point, really, when he’s already sure he’s pretty much fucked it all up?

That’s not to say his mother didn’t try, though. Once, about a week before.

_“‘M goin’ out, mum!” Harry yells lazily as he trundles down the stairs, wrapping a scarf hurriedly around his neck, eager to get out the door and down the road to the pub to see his old school mates, aware that he’s already almost a quarter of an hour late after Gemma seemed to think that her hair care routine was more far more important that Harry’s. (Which, wrong.)_

_“Hold on a second, Harry!” he hears, and he stills in his movements, warm coat halfway zipped up as he awaits whatever inevitable ream of questions he knows she has for him, her tone of voice easy to determine of that of a curious, almost suspicious one._

_Anne stands between him and the door with her arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised in a way that, for a split second, shouldn’t remind Harry of_ him, _but does._

_“Yeah?” Harry asks, smiling as innocently as he can muster, although it’s most likely all for nothing because Harry is a terrible liar and his mother has been able to see through him since he was little._

_His mum fights a smile, looking entirely unimpressed at his attempts to ward her off. “We still haven’t had our chat, love.”_

_Harry sits down on the stairs, then, because he might as well - this will last a while. He starts untying and retying his boot laces up, just to do something and keep his eyes occupied so he doesn’t have to look at his mum, because that’s just game over, really._

_Harry clears his throat, meticulously tying a shoelace the slowest he’s ever tied one in his life, probably, trying his hardest to keep his voice level, “uh, which chat was that?”_

_He can hear her sigh exasperatedly from above him, but she tries to cover it up, bless her. Harry knows she just wants to help, but he’d rather not acknowledge any of what she wants to bring up at least not until he’s had at least three pints and a few G &Ts down him and absolutely no chance of him remembering the conversation the next day. He’d rather feel sorry for himself by himself, would rather no one else had the chance to pity him. He does that enough on his own._

_“Harry.” The word is stern, high at the end, the slightest edge of frustration to it._

_“Anne.” he jokes, voice mockingly serious, an attempt at lightening the suddenly sombre mood, one that, of course, fails miserably._

_His mum just stares at him, eyes full of concern, expression expectant. There’s a pause between them, then, and just as Harry shifts his attention back to his shoes, his mum speaks up again._

_“What’s his name, then?”_

_Harry’s throat instantly goes dry, tongue heavy in his mouth and stomach dropping as she stares blankly as his now-frozen hands, because fuck, she knows, of course she bloody knows what this is all about, he was stupid to think he’d be able to fool his own mother. Now what the fuck is he supposed to do?_

_Harry coughs, roughly, and lifts his gaze to his mum, worry still written clearly on her face, brow furrowed slightly as she stares at him._

_“What– um, what,” Harry stutters out, feeling slightly guilty, swallowing dryly before going on, “makes you think that this…” he sighs, then, because he’s sure there’s hardly any point playing dumb anymore, “is about a boy?”_

_Anne tilts her head slightly, and smiles, then, a soft, knowing smile. “Because I know you, darling.”_

_Harry hums, and nods once, defeated in his attempts to conceal something like this from his mum, of all people. He stands up, zips his coat the rest of the way up and leans close to his mum to plant a quick kiss on her cheek._

_“Gonna be late for the lads,” he mumbles, avoiding taking the conversation any further, slipping past her to pull the front door open. “I’ll see you later.”_

_Harry hears his mum sigh, again, and he feels bad, keeping all this from her. He knows she won’t push, not really, even when she’s obviously concerned, because usually he’ll just tell her whatever’s on his mind. It’s not like him to keep secrets._

_Harry pauses in the doorway, the cold air blistering his exposed skin, shocking his body immediately. He looks back to his mum, who’s smiling at him, despite his brushing off of her. Quickly, he makes a decision._

_“His name is Louis,” he tells her, words solid and smooth, despite the chill. “The boy,” he explains, even though he’s sure she knows what he’s talking about, “his name is Louis.”_

_Anne’s eyes widen, slightly, at the information, and then she nods, smiling smally. She’s visibly relieved, almost, Harry thinks, probably because he’s at least told her something, if not the whole story._

_“Well,” she says,_ “Louis _must mean a lot to you, Harry, if he’s got you all cut up like this.” Harry hears the words, but it takes him a little while to respond. Too busy thinking about him again. Too busy agreeing inwardly with that sentiment. How can he not, really. He’s surprised he’s gotten this far into the holiday without a moment like this._

_“Yeah,” Harry replies, softly, in a daze, almost, as he finally makes his way out the door, edging closer to a half hour late now, “yeah, he does.”_

So, Harry had successfully spent the entirety of Christmas Eve distracting himself, mainly with the annual family walk, watching several Christmas movies with his sister, and even giving his mum a hand in the kitchen with the ridiculous amount of mince pies she insists on baking each year. 

When it got to the evening however, he found himself accepting each and every offer of alcohol he was given, intent on drinking himself into a sherry-induced stupor in order to get his mind off anything that could change his carefully (and strenuously) curated Christmas spirit, all notions of boys and uni and boys _from_ uni vanquished from his thoughts in order to maintain this precarious level of jollyness he’s got going.

This was, however, and of course, the wrong idea. 

You see, one drunken scroll through Facebook in bed, and that’s it, really. Harry doesn’t even like it, to be honest, never usually goes on it, but it’s something about the desperate need to distract himself, (plus, probably, how utterly smashed he is) even if it means having to see about seven versions of the same picture in a row, that keeps him scrolling and scrolling until he, of course, comes across the one thing his sober self was avoiding.

Harry stares at his screen, forces his bleary eyes to focus on the one thing, the one reminder that he’s been trying to avoid literally all day, and at 11:43pm, he’d almost made it.

_It’s Louis Tomlinson’s birthday today! Wish him a happy birthday._

Harry sighs, words blurry on the screen, slightly, as his brain tries to catch up with his eyes, suddenly feeling a lot more drunk than he had originally thought. 

Of course he knew it was Louis’ birthday today. 

Louis had told him, ages ago, randomly during a discussion which Harry can’t quite remember right now but he’s sure he was probably just trying to distract Louis during one of their sessions. It doesn’t matter now, anyway, because it’s Louis’ birthday, and– and, also, Harry hasn’t spoken to Louis since they left for break, but Harry _misses_ Louis - God, does he fucking miss him, and maybe it’s because of the alcohol or the late hour or perhaps it’s a combination of both, but right now, Harry’s a little bit drunk and a little bit sad and suddenly he’s typing a succession of three texts to the boy in question before he even realises it.

**Happt birhdya lou**

**i misss tou**

**Harrycxxxx**

It’s sent before Harry can even fully check over whatever message his sloppy drunk fingers have made, and actually, it’s a good thing, because by now it’s nearly midnight and his eyelids are drooping and his gaze unfocused, his throat is tight and heavy and he doesn’t want to cry, so instead, he falls asleep. 

–

Harry wakes up to a dull ache in his head and a phone void of any new messages.

He’d expected the headache, really, considering the rather worrying amount he’d had to drink the night before.

He should have expected the lack of reply from Louis, too, of course. Harry’s first thought when he had blearily blinked his eyes open minutes ago was to see if the other boy had responded, as pathetic as it sounds. Obviously Louis had every right to ignore his message, in light of the way they’d left things. But Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t have a little hope that Louis would have texted him back, even just to tell him to fuck off, really. 

Harry taps the messages icon anyway, into their chat, just to check… 

_Read, 12:03am._

Well. He definitely should have expected that. 

_God,_ Harry thinks, as he buries his head beneath his duvet, silencing the rest of the world for a moment, _you’re such an idiot. A pathetic, sorrowful idiot._

He lets out a low groan, frustrated at himself for his lack of proactiveness in trying to fix– well, fix whatever the fuck happened between them, ignoring it for days until he was drunk enough to lose control over himself momentarily. Frustrated at himself for being such a coward before, not telling Louis how he felt. How he feels. 

“You alright, weirdo?” 

Harry hears the muffled voice come from outside of his warm blanket cocoon, and he pokes his eyes out from underneath it to see who it’s come from.

Gemma, of course, is leaning against his door frame with an amused expression, one sharp eyebrow raised in question, no doubt judging Harry and his early morning sounds. 

“‘M fine,” he mumbles, trying not to sound as shitty as he feels, “just a bit hungover.”

Gemma frowns, slightly, and Harry’s glad she can’t see half his face because she’d for sure be able to tell that he isn’t telling the whole truth.

“Okay…” she drawls, still looking sceptical, “well, it’s Christmas Day, in case you’d forgotten. See you downstairs in a bit for pancakes?”

Harry sighs. He couldn’t feel less in the Christmas spirit if he tried. 

“Yep,” he replies, sitting up and yawning to hide the flatness in his tone, “won’t be a minute.”

Gemma still looks a bit unsure, so Harry flashes her a sleepy smile, anything to ward her off asking him what’s wrong, or, God forbid, interrogating him like mum tried to. 

“Alright,” she offers, seemingly giving up, “but hurry up, else I’ll eat them all before you get there!” 

Harry chuckles as she floats out of the room, but it’s fleeting, the moment of joy replaced by the heavy sadness and defeat he feels. Jesus. Since when has he been so bloody dramatic? 

(Perhaps it’s due to most of his time spent hanging around a drama fanatic, but Harry decidedly does _not_ think about that.)

Finally Harry gets up out of his protective shell of misery and shoves a jumper on, plastering a smile on his face and aiming to forget about boys who don’t reply to drunken midnight texts, at least for the day.

Like many things, however, it’s easier said than done.

–

New Year’s Eve, then.

A time of change, of growth, of merriment and joy, apparently.

Or in Harry’s case, a wonderful excuse to watch _Friends_ reruns on E4 all night and pretend like it’s just any old evening at home, and not one that he should be out celebrating.

After expressing his desire to wallow in self-pity as a way to spend his New Year’s Eve, perhaps even sinking into the sofa cushions completely if he’s lucky, Harry is forcibly dragged out of his house by one of his old schoolmates, who, after many frankly _charming -_ however, unsuccessful - attempts at convincing and bargaining with Harry...

(“I’ll buy you a drink? Okay, fine, I’ll buy you _all_ your drinks. What do you mean ‘no’? Alright, alright, but what about everyone else? They want you there! Why? Well, because usually you’re not such a miserable cunt like this. Oh, uh, sorry, ‘scuse my language, Anne.”)

...Ed decides to just pick Harry up off the sofa with a strength that he reckons they both were unaware of him having, telling him on the way out as Harry stubbornly dragged his feet that it’s ‘for his own good’ and that he’ll ‘thank him later for it.’

The moon lights the sky just enough for them to not need a torch as they leave the house. The crunch of snow under their feet as they make their way down the road to the local pub is the only sound around, alongside their short, choppy breaths in the biting winter chill. 

That is, until of course, Ed breaks the silence.

“So,” he remarks, casually, as if he hadn’t just basically carried out a kidnapping, “Who’s the boy, then?”

Harry’s jaw goes rigid; he knew this was coming. He sighs, white plume of air releasing from his lips, and he stares at the ground as they walk, sulkily pulling his beanie lower over his head and trying not to face the fact that perhaps he’s far more transparent than he thought.

“Wish people would stop asking me that,” he grunts, avoiding looking over at his irritatingly cheerful friend.

“Well,” Ed chatters, “someone’s a bit grumpy, eh?” and he wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, then, which is annoying because he’s much shorter than Harry, but he lets it slide because, actually, it’s quite nice. 

Harry chuckles at his friend’s action, and rolls his eyes, which, he realises, was probably the point. 

_“Theeeeere_ we go,” Ed cheers, poking Harry’s cheek with a gloved finger, “there are those famous Styles dimples that you’ve been hiding away!”

Harry frowns, but he can’t help the way his lips curl up at the edges, “haven’t been hidin’ ‘em,” he mumbles, swatting Ed’s hand away from his face, “they’ve just been on their holidays.”

Ed scoffs, back to walking alongside Harry normally, now, arms swinging by his sides like the happy-go-lucky guy he is, “you do talk some shit sometimes, Haz.”

Harry just shrugs, as grins at his friend, and, really, this is the best he’s felt since he’s got home, he thinks, just joking and messing around and not thinking about–

“Anyway,” Ed announces, and Harry can just sense where this is going, even as he can see the bright, glowing lights coming from the pub up ahead, “don’t try to change the subject. Tell me about this boy else we’re not going in.”

Well. It was nice while it lasted.

“Perfect,” Harry deadpans, clapping his hands once and turning on his heel, much to Ed’s confusion, “I’ll just be off home, then, see ya–”

Ed snorts at Harry’s behaviour, reaching out to grab Harry’s arm before he manages to escape, _“Harryyyyy,”_ he whines from behind him, roughly spinning Harry around to face him, “don’t be a prick, just let me help you out with some of my famously wise advice.” His voice gets a little more serious, with his next words, “Come on, it’s obviously bothering you, H.”

Harry crosses his arms, and sighs. He knows if he just walks home, Ed will follow him. He’s not getting away from his mate, that’s for sure. He looks over at the pub, sees people milling about outside, drinking and okay, fine, he will admit that they look like they’re having a _bit_ of fun. 

He looks over at his friend, who meets him with an open expression, eyebrows raised, waiting for a decision.

Harry sighs again, deeply, and shuts his eyes while he thinks, already getting far too cold to be able to stay out much longer.

“Fine,” Harry decides, much to Ed’s clear delight, and immediately they start towards the warmth of the pub. Ed is a little ahead, alright, so Harry has to call out the next bit, “but you’re buying me any drink I want! Even if it’s disgustingly fruity and expensive!”

Ed, already halfway inside, just looks back and nods eagerly, leaving Harry outside on his own. He looks at the time on his phone. _9:34pm,_ it reads. Just a couple more hours, then he can go home, he tells himself. He breathes out, as he walks in. Just a couple more. 

–

“So, wait, wait, wait, he was your _tutor?_ That’s a bit kinky, innit? _”_

Harry rolls his eyes for what feels like the third time since they’d gotten their third round, or was it fourth? He can’t really remember, what he _can_ remember however is that he’s definitely already explained this part of the story to Ed before.

 _“Yes,_ Ed, can we please focus here? Your– ya _judgement_ of my nonexistent kink is really not the point of why I’m telling you all this,” Harry huffs, taking a long sip of his bright pink cocktail that’s balancing precariously in his hand as he drapes himself across the back of the booth, gesticulating at his friend while he argues. The drink happens to taste little like alcohol and rather a lot like artificial colours and flavours. S’quite good, though.

Ed just giggles at him, and he’s always been a giggly drunk; happy and affectionate and giggly at the worst of times. He takes a long pull of his pint, smacking the glass down once he’s done, so hard that some beer sloshes over onto the table, even onto Harry’s hand.

“Edddddd,” Harry whines, petulantly, whilst attempting to shake off the gross liquid from his hand. Never liked beer, really. Doesn’t mind serving it, just hates the taste. Harry’s more of a cocktail man himself - something fruity and delicious. Yum. 

“What’s yummy?” Ed asks, snapping Harry out of his thoughts, fixing him with what Harry _thinks_ is a confused frown, but he can’t be sure due to the fact that his eyes aren’t fully in focus right this second.

Harry’s skin grows hot momentarily when he realises he’d been thinking out loud. Perhaps he’s more drunk than he had though. 

“Nothin’, you terrible excuse for a mate,” he responds, haughtily, taking another sip of his drink, “you haven’t helped at all, and it’s–” he pauses to glance at the screen in the corner of the pub, broadcasting the live countdown to the new year celebrations happening in London, “–very nearly midnight, I think, and you’ve given me none of your ‘famously wise advice’ or whatever the fuck.”

Ed just smiles at him, lazily, eyes glazed over like they always do when he pissed. “Harry,” he says simply, running a rough hand over Harry’s face as he says it, like a drunk priest attempting a baptism, “just relaaaax–”

“Ge’ off me, you heathen.”

“–and tell him how you feel,” Ed concludes, sitting back in his chair with all the confidence and self-assuredness of someone who’s just discovered the cure for cancer. Honestly. 

Harry groans, and rolls his eyes for the fourth time since they got this round, catching sight of everyone else in the pub having a great time, old school friends and strangers alike dancing and singing and chatting while he’s having to face a conversation that is the equivalent of water torture. 

_“I_ could have bloody thought of that, you numpty,” he tells Ed, who’s already finishing his drink and signalling for more, and really Harry should argue, say they’ve had enough, but right now more alcohol is probably for the best.

Ed turns back to him, grinning, “yeah, but ya didn’t, did ya? Or at least you didn’t act on it,” he quips, earning a scowl from Harry, because really, how the fuck has it taken Ed, three (four?) drinks down in the back of a noisy, sweaty pub to make it seem so bloody simple?

Harry stops and starts a couple of times, brows remaining furrowed. “Well. No, I guess I didn’t,” his words all slightly slur into one long one, but he’s sure Ed has understood him when he receives a knowing smile and a shrug in return.

“Yeah!” Ed nods, voice far too loud, “exactly, and why is that, H?” 

“I dunno,” Harry dismisses, pleased to see their drinks have arrived, and he swipes up his fresh cocktail with all the eagerness of an alcoholic getting their daily fix, “just more complicated than that, I guess.” His words are mumbled through lips that are wrapped around a straw, but Ed seems to pick them up just fine.

“Mate, listen to me,” he begins, more sincere than he had sounded all evening. Harry looks up at his friend, and gets caught in a hard stare. “Nothing’s less complicated than being in love with someone. In fact, I think it’s the most uncomplicated feeling of all.” 

Harry gulps. He hadn’t– it’s not that he hadn’t realised his… _feelings_ for Louis, and how deep they were, but having someone say it, out loud like that, well. It makes it so much more real. 

“How–” Harry starts, unable to break eye contact with his suddenly fluent-in-the-language-of-love friend, “how d’you reckon that?”

Ed leans back, a little, takes another impressive swig of his beer before responding. “Just… when you know, you know. The rest is just background shit that you can deal with whenever you want. What you _can’t_ deal with whenever you want, however, is telling someone how you feel. Because sometimes–”

He pauses, and Harry leans closer, almost on the edge of his seat, because this is actually sort of good advice and he’ll regret everything if he misses a bit of it because his hearing was interrupted by the sounds of a couple practically having sex with each other in the booth next to them. 

And then Ed burps, loud and long and right into Harry’s face. Which is just. Wonderful.

“Lovely,” Harry remarks.

“Sorry,” Ed chuckles, “as I was saying. Sometimes it gets too late, and you miss your chance with your person. Do you want to miss your chance, Harry?”

Harry lets the words settle, thinks for a moment. He tries to block out the sounds of the pub around them as best he can, the cheers and cries and the start of the countdown to midnight. 

_TEN!_

He shuts his eyes tight and just breathes, and breathes, and breathes. 

_NINE!_

And suddenly, suddenly everything just… clears.

_EIGHT!_

_Fuck_ what happened that night after the party, Harry thinks.

_SEVEN!_

_Fuck_ Harry making a stupid mistake, and not bloody telling Louis _why_ he did it.

_SIX!_

_Fuck_ him feeling sorry for himself and wallowing in self-pity for days after and not doing a fucking thing about it. 

_FIVE!_

_Fuck_ Harry accepting that this is it, this is the end, because it’s fucking well not. 

_FOUR!_

And he’s going to be sure of that.

_THREE!_

“I’m gonna tell ‘im how I feel,” Harry, giddy and light and fizzing with a sudden burst of energy, announces across at Ed, whose face lights up immediately in delight at the words.

 _“Yes_ Harry! What are you gonna say?” Ed shouts back, hardly heard above the excitement buzzing and building in the pub as they edge closer and closer.

_TWO!_

Harry grins. “I’m gonna tell him I’m in love with ‘im!”

_ONE!_

The celebration and cheer around them is no match for the moment Ed and Harry share, Ed pulling Harry into a vice-like grip that to some would appear as a hug, screaming his excitement into Harry’s ear that he’s _‘finally fucking got it, thank god! Happy fuckin’ new year to us!’_ Harry doesn’t mind, though, actually feels a pleasant happiness fill him, for a moment, a long with a light veil of anxiety as he realises just what he’s going to do. 

He’s made the decision to tell Louis, that’s part one. 

Part two is, of course, the actual execution of the whole, well, telling him part.

Harry turns to Ed in a moment of panic. 

“If I don’t send him a text or something now, I’m gonna chicken out, mate, I just know it,” he confesses, the noise in the pub now died down a little as people start to file out home. 

Ed grabs the phone that was clutched what Harry thought was rather tight in his hand, but apparently now. “Oh no you fuckin’ don’t, not in this state, anyway. You’d think I’d let all my sound advice and convincing go to waste just so you could declare your love over a sloppily written drunk text? Forget it, mate,” he scoffs, seemingly almost insulted at the idea, “just tell him you need to speak to him when you go back next week. You speak, I’ll type. Go.”

Harry, momentarily stunned, blinks his way out of it to respond, “uh, right, yeah, okay. Prob’ly a good idea,” he slurs, really starting to feel the effects of his numerous beverages now. “Just, um, I guess– um, just say… say that if, uh, if he’d like to– no wait, of course he wouldn’t, hold on–”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll write it. Jesus.”

Harry’s breath gets caught in his throat, as he watches his friend type remarkably quickly on his phone for the amount of drinks he’s had, “wait, Ed! Don’t put anything–”

“Here, haven’t sent it yet, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He hands over his phone, and Harry reads over what he wrote.

**Hi, Lou.**

**Sorry about previous text. Was a bit drunk–**

Harry stops reading to glance up at Ed, “how did you know I was drunk when I sent that last one?”

“Are you joking?” Ed replies, almost on a laugh, “think you got about three letters actually in the right place in that last text, mate. Either you were drunk or your keyboard’s broken, and it’s obviously not the second one.”

Harry looks back down at his phone. “Could have been,” he mumbles. He hates how obviously pathetic he is. 

“Stop your grumbling and send the text, for god’s sake.” Ed urges, and Harry starts to read the rest of the text. 

**Hi, Lou.**

**Sorry about previous text. Was a bit drunk, Christmas eve and all. Anyway, just texting to wish you a happy new year. You deserve it. Was hoping that when we get back to uni, we could talk, maybe? I have a few things I’d like to tell you…**

**H .x**

“Why the dot dot dot? Bit weird,” Harry notes, to a now much more impatient-looking Ed, arms crossed where he sits watching Harry read the text over and over. Impressively, he’s gotten Harry’s idiolect down pretty well. 

Ed rolls his eyes, now, “it makes it more mysterious, more of a chance that he’ll want to see you. Or at least reply.”

Harry stops slurping noisily through his straw, “you think he might not reply?”

“Well he didn’t to the last one, did he?” Ed so helpfully reminds him, “although maybe that’s because it’s hardly even comprehensible–”

“Okay, thank youuuu, spelling police, that’s quite enough,” Harry replies, slowly, undercurrent of nerves present, feeling less confident about this as the seconds go by. “Maybe… maybe I won’t send it right _now…”_

“Fuckin’ hell, Harry, yes you bloody well will! Or I will for you! Do– d’you still want a chance or not?” 

Harry inhales, deep, tries to conjure up any remaining sober cell in his body to aid him in making this decision. 

He nods. “Yes,” he says, ignoring the tightness in his stomach and the heat beneath his skin, because for fuck’s sake it’s just a stupid little text, and if he doesn’t send it now then he never will and he’ll regret it forever probably. That’s what it feels like anyway.

He taps his screen once.

The blue line at the top of the chat grows until it disappears, and under the message reads the word _‘Delivered’._

Harry breathes out. 

“Sent it,” he manages. He almost wants to switch his phone off now, play schrödinger's cat with his bloody inbox so he doesn’t have to wait anxiously for a reply, or a lack of one. If the phone’s off, then he can’t be rejected (again), and can’t see if Louis’ responded, either. Somehow he knows this won’t solve anything.

“Right, sick one,” Ed offers, getting up out of his seat then, and Harry just now notices that the pub had mostly cleared out. “Now that that’s all sorted, I reckon it’s time to head home, yeah?”

Harry looks at his phone once again, and then locks it, puts in on silent and shoves it in his pocket. He can deal with it tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” Harry replies, belatedly, finding it a lot more difficult that it seemed for Ed to pick himself up and out of the booth, feeling dizzy and light as soon as his feet touch the ground. “Let’s go.”

Ed lends him a hand and together they hobble out of the pub, waving goodnight to the owner and the remaining patrons, and out into the frigid temperatures outside.

They walk silently up the lane, for a bit, alone with their thoughts.

“Happy new year, H,” Ed hums cheerfully into the night, “‘m proud of you.”

Harry smiles, wanders how the evening would have turned out had Ed not kicked his arse into gear. “Happy new year, Ed,” he replies, nudging him with his shoulder. “And thanks, mate.”

–

_**fine . we can meet outside the library , first day back if u want . have some books to return . 4pm . louis.** _

Harry stares at the text, again, reads it for at least the fifth time that morning.

It’s been about a week since he got it, and of course, he’d been much too much of a nervous wreck for the first couple days after receiving it to actually open it, let alone reply.

Eventually, though, as the first day of Spring semester drew near, he realised he had to reply; say something at least, else he’d really be to blame, and Ed would probably never let him live it down. He’s lucky Louis even replied this time, let alone agreed to meet him. He’d have been stupid to miss his chance to properly apologise, explain himself.

**Sounds great. Thanks, Louis. I’ll see you then. H .x**

He sends it the day before he’s due to leave his mum’s house, hoping by some completely ridiculous logic that perhaps because he’d replied the day before they were supposed to meet, now there’s less of a chance for Louis to back out. Or something. 

It’s when he’s standing outside the library at exactly 4:13pm, waiting in the freezing Manchester cold and rain, that Harry really begins to realise the flaw in said logic.

The sky above him is grey and dull, incessant slap of the rainfall against the concrete pavement a steady reminder that it really just isn’t his fucking day today. As he leans against the rough, red brick wall of the building he’s suddenly reminded of a day like this, months ago; his and Louis’ first meeting. 

Harry sighs as he recalls it, the annoyance and frustration he felt at having to drag himself out of bed so early, at having to be told what to do and how to do it by a fellow student, the embarrassment of the word ‘tutoring’. If only he’d known, back then, just how much he’d come to appreciate the time spent studying, appreciate the time spent with Louis.

He checks his phone again, after a little while. 4:26pm. Louis’ almost half an hour late, and, frankly, Harry doesn’t know how long his patience is going to last him standing outside in the pouring rain until he just marches over to Louis’ flat like a mad man to confront him there.

(Apparently, it’s about another thirty seconds.)

–

It’s only when Harry’s standing outside Louis’ building, hunched over in a soaking wet hooded jacket that’s not nearly warm enough, underneath a tiny stoop by the door, staring at the buzzers on the wall that he realises he’d remembered the route there off by heart.

He shouldn’t be proud of it, in fact it should be slightly pathetic, edging onto embarrassing, but right now he doesn’t have time to worry about that sort of thing.

Harry takes a hand from where it’s stuffed deep into his pocket, fingers just about numb at the end from the possible frostbite he’s suffering from, and after a deep breath to pull himself together, he finally presses one of the buttons.

And he waits. 

“Who is it?” 

The crackly voice that comes through the shitty intercom would be hardly recognisable, if not for the distinctive Irish lilt to it that, just the sound of it alone, manages to ease Harry’s nerves just a little.

“Uh, Niall, ‘s me, Harry,” he starts, trying to maintain a level but loud voice to be heard above the rain, “listen, this is gonna sound weird, but can you let me in? I need–”

The abrasive buzz of the door being unlocked interrupts Harry’s extremely un-well thought out speech, thankfully, and Harry seizes his opportunity, despite the fact that he hadn’t fully explained himself to his mate. He pushes the stiff door open, welcomes the immediate heat that meets him on the inside, and starts to make his way up the stairs.

Niall’s waiting for him outside his flat once Harry gets to his floor, expression as giddy and excited as it always seems to be, because of course.

He grins when their eyes finally meet, “Harry!” he bursts, and he does seem genuinely happy to see him, which sort of makes Harry feel slightly guilty for what he’s about to say, “how are you, mate? I feel like I haven’t heard from ya all break, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry smiles, really smiles, starts to feel a little less frantic than before. He bites his lip when he looks over at his friend as he tries to choose his next words very carefully. 

“Right, so, uh, basically, it’s not that I _don’t_ want to hang out with you, Niall, ‘cos I do, it’s just– well, the reason I’m–”

Niall rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Harry’s blithering, “you’re here to see Louis aren’t ya?” he guesses, miraculously, or else Harry is just extremely transparent, which, now that he thinks about it, is probably what it is. “You know he has his own buzzer, right?”

Harry clears his throat, nerves trickling back as he edges towards the steps leading up to the next floor, knowing Louis is quite literally most likely above him right now, and the anticipation to just go and see him, talk to him finally is slightly killing him. 

“Yes, Niall, I– look, I didn’t think he’d answer, so I just… got creative, I suppose?” he offers, much to Niall’s apparent amusement.

Niall nods, with a closed lip smile, “alright, alright. Thought it might be something like that when you didn’t even text to say you were coming.” Niall tips his head to the staircase leading up, “now go get your boy, for God’s sake, can see you practically itching to get up there, bloody ‘ell.”

Harry manages a shaky smile, features taught, “am I that obvious?” he asks, body thrumming with anxious energy as he realises this is it, he’s actually, probably, _hopefully_ about to see Louis, like. Right now. 

Niall barks a a single laugh. “Yes! Now go,” he walks over, even gives Harry a gentle shove up the first couple of steps. When Harry turns around to start his climb, he just catches a softer, sincere “and good luck” come from behind him, and, well, it’s safe to say he’s slightly shitting himself now.

And then he’s outside the blue door again, for the third time, and he doesn’t think he’s ever, _ever_ felt the way he does right now. He takes his hood down and shakes the droplets of water from his hair, breaths short, and choppy as he does, palms sweating and skin hot and cold at the same time, and somehow he knows that if he doesn’t just bloody knock on the door right now then he never will, he’ll just chicken out and run away and probably won’t even text Louis to ask why he stood him up, even though Louis doesn’t really owe Harry anything, and so with all that being thought Harry holds his curled fist up to the door, inches away, and breathes.

Before he has the chance to bring knuckle to wood, however, the door suddenly opens, abruptly, taking Harry by immediate surprise.

He’s so focused on his shock that he doesn’t even notice who’s standing right in front of him. Not immediately, anyway.

When he does, though. God, does he notice.

Louis stands there, facing him, expression portraying a certain type of surprise that Harry is sure is etched across his own face, too. Eyes wide and ever so blue, still, dark in the lack of light there is. His jaw slack, mouth a perfect o shape, circled by lips impossibly pink; perfect, plush lips that were on Harry’s just merely a few weeks ago. It’s hard to believe, really, when he thinks about it. It’s like a punch to the gut every time he does, every time he remembers how badly he ruined it for them. 

“Hi.”

It’s a very short, very simple, two letter word. Harry’s heard it a million times before. Somehow, though, somehow today, right now, it’s different. 

It takes Harry a moment, because, well. Louis putting him at a loss for words isn’t exactly a rare occurrence. The way he’d breathed out the utterance, like a whisper, like he didn’t even mean it. Like it was by accident; a freudian slip. Harry will take it, nevertheless. He’ll take anything Louis will give him, greedily, gratefully. 

“Hi,” Harry manages back, with a tiny smile, eyes on Louis, because really, how can they not be? 

He still looks utterly gorgeous, like he always is. That soft, worn jumper that brings out his eyes, oversized coat that Harry doesn’t recognise chucked on over the top that seems to almost swallow him up. His hair a mess, sticking up in all directions, like he’s just woken up, maybe. The glasses he wears that make him look impossibly more intelligent than he already is, already slipping down his nose as he stares right back at Harry.

Harry never used to understand what people meant when they said that sometimes, when you’re really in love with someone, it can physically hurt. 

But as he stares across at Louis, standing in the tiny doorway, and using up all his self control not to reach across and just _touch_ him, well. He does now.

Harry sees the other boy swallow, his tongue dart out to moisten his lips, before he speaks. His eyes graze the length of Harry, pausing in between to take in his soaked-through clothes, Harry reckons. Louis’ gaze travels back up to his face, then; his lips, his hair, and finally back to his eyes. 

Louis shuffles where he stands, jaw rigid and mouth pursed defensively, his voice is taut, guarded. “What’re you doing here, Styles?” 

Hearing him say his old nickname like that, so casually, just like before, before everything, makes Harry’s chest tighten. 

Harry clears his throat, afraid his voice has gone croaky from the nerves. “Didn’t think you were coming, so.” So I came to your flat, unannounced, like a crazy stalker. _Yep, extremely charming, well done Harry._

Louis frowns, slightly, and it’s not as closed off as before. He leans against the doorframe, shoulder resting there when he asks, quietly, “so you came to get me? Bit presumptive of you, isn’t it?”

Harry opens his mouth, any sort of argument getting stuck in his throat. He breathes, and tries again. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, frowning at himself. God, he’s so stupid, he shouldn’t have come, really, should have taken Louis not showing up as enough of an answer. “I’ll, um,” he starts, pointing over his shoulder, turning his body slightly to leave, unable to meet Louis’ eyes, “I’ll just go, I shouldn’t have–”

“No, wait.”

Harry turns back, brows still furrowed, now with confusion. He looks down, sees Louis’ hand on his arm; the weight of it enough to send a chill down Harry’s spine. 

He slowly looks up at Louis, whose expression has changed, slightly. It’s more open, a hint of intrigue in his eyes that Harry couldn’t miss if he tried. His cheeks are flushing, little by little, lashes blanketing his eyes when he looks down for a beat, and then back up at Harry, pleading, his grip never loosening. 

“Yeah?” Harry exhales, imploring, stepping forward slightly as his eyes search Louis’ own, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of his voice. 

“I, um,” Louis starts, eventually removing his hand from Harry’s arm, like he’s just remembered it was there. He pauses to clear his throat. “I was on my way, actually.” Harry sees the small pile of books in Louis’ other hand, then; he hadn’t noticed them before. “Just got a bit, uh. Held up, I suppose.”

Harry stares at him. “Oh,” he says, word small, with an air of tentative relief. His nerves are only muted for a moment, though, before he steps even closer, reaching up to get a hold of the door frame, as close to Louis as he lets him, closer than he’s been in weeks. He looks at Louis, now, really takes him in in their small proximity; the steady hold of his gaze as he watches Harry, the part to his lips, the way he swallows, slowly, as Harry leans towards him, “Louis, can we–”

“I do, uh, really need to drop these books off,” Louis cuts in, voice whole again, dismissive, and eyes focussing on something else, anywhere else, other than Harry. “The library’ll shut soon, and–”

“Louis.” It’s… it’s almost pained, the way Harry says it. A plea, really, a last request. One word that seems to hold many.

 _Stay here_ , it says. _Don’t go just yet, let me look at you a little longer._

Louis stops, then, Harry’s arm blocking his way, but he still stares at the ground, still won’t meet Harry’s gaze. 

Harry sighs, wondering how long it’ll be like this. Wondering if it’ll stay like this, if it’ll ever go back to how it was, if they’ll ever get rid of this… this tension between them, thrumming through the air, tension that makes Harry feel like he’s miles away even when Louis is standing right there in front of him.

Harry tries to cool the heat under his skin, and he dips his head, an attempt to catch Louis’ eye. 

“Would you please… please just look at me.” The words leave his lips on a whisper, aching, desperate. _“Louis.”_

And Louis does looks at him, finally. And Harry notices what he didn’t before; purple bags under his eyes, only visible up close, skin an ashen, pale shade, not as golden as it usually is. Harry hates to think he had any part in this.

“Harry.”

It’s still stubborn as ever, still at attempt at shutting him out. But Harry, for once, can see right through it. Notices the slight break in his voice, the vulnerable edge to it, and the way his breath catches at the end. The way he leans up, slightly, as he says it, eyes now locked on Harry’s. 

He takes that as encouragement to lean further down, just a little more, their faces now just inches apart, “Louis…”

The next word from Louis is released on a sweet, warm breath, Harry’s own name melting across his lips so softly, gently, that he can’t help what he does next.

Harry starts to move his hand down from the where it’s resting above Louis’ head, slowly, before he comes to rest it delicately on Louis’ neck, thumb immediately going to stroke the soft skin of his still-tight jaw, over and over until he can feel it relax under his touch, his eyes never leaving the blue pull of Louis’ gaze for a second. 

Louis’ lips part, just so, on a breath, and then Harry can’t help himself, any semblance of will power gone out the window because Louis’ eyes flutter shut and he angles his mouth closer to Harry’s and then, and _then,_ the space between them just. Vanishes. 

Feeling Louis’ lips on his again is a hot, heavy rush; Harry feels his head go dizzy and his limbs go light, skin hot and tingly all over because Louis feels soft and warm and familiar, and Harry can’t believe he managed to go this long without this feeling, once he had a taste of what it was like before.

Louis’ hand, at some point, had gripped onto Harry’s waist, and Harry could almost cry with the feeling of Louis touching him again, like this, like he _wants_ him, needs him. He can feel the other boy’s pulse race under his fingertips, can feel his own blood coursing through his veins at speed in his ears, but this isn’t enough, suddenly it’s not _enough._

Louis seems to feel the same, as he presses his mouth more firmly against Harry’s, tongue tracing the seam of Harry’s lips, a question, and Harry is more than happy to oblige. His mouth opens easily, like they’ve done this a million times before, and then the kiss gets messier, more desperate, and Harry doesn’t know when it happened but he’s got Louis up against the door, now, bodies almost fully touching, one hand cradling his head, fingers tangled in his hair, the other remaining on his jaw; an anchor. 

In the back of his mind, as Harry licks desperately into Louis’ mouth, tastes every inch of him as though his life depended on it, hungry for Louis in ways that he hadn’t even realised until now, he knows anyone could walk past at any minute, anyone could see them, but Harry… Harry doesn’t care. He stopped caring about stuff like that a while ago, he realises. 

Their kiss slows, becomes less intense, more tentative, like they’ve done it backwards. Louis’ lips feel supple and swollen under Harry’s as he plants little pecks onto Louis’ mouth; his own not faring much better. 

He can’t help the small smile that seems to appear, on its own, onto Harry’s face as they finally part, can’t help the way his heartbeat won’t seem to slow, the way his chest feels as though it might burst with how fucking _happy_ he is.

They stay like that a minute, breathing in each other’s space, lips almost touching, still, like magnets. Harry’s hand come to rest on Louis’ shoulders, his forehead on Louis’, both of them panting like they’ve just done a lot more than just snog dirtily in a doorway.

Harry knows, though, once the fog in his head has started to clear, and he’s caught his breath, that this isn’t over yet.

He leans back, opens his eyes, at that moment, creates distance between them until his back is touching the wall opposite the door, as far from Louis as possible. He doesn’t trust himself otherwise.

Louis’ silent, eyes shut dreamily as his head leans against the door, those lashes that Harry loves fanning out beautifully. His chest is heaving, just a bit, and Harry bites his lip to stop himself from finding pleasure in something so ridiculous.

He takes a breath, then, deep and long. “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t come here to do that,” Harry offers, breaking the delicate silence between them. “Not just that, anyway,” he mutters.

Louis’ eyes drift open at the words, little by little, like he’s in some kind of daze, until they focus on Harry once more. The sight of him, like that, line of his jaw sharp; sliver of blue underneath blankets of thick black; bitten, ruby-red lips plump and stark against his pale skin. It almost makes Harry lose his train of thought. He is truly, _truly_ the most stunning boy Harry’s ever laid eyes on. 

“God, I’m so in love with you.”

Harry realises what he’s said under his breath about an eighth of a second after the words escape his mouth.

He hadn’t meant for it to just… slip out like that, not at all, but for a second it was like Harry had completely and utterly lost any control of his brain and voice and everything in between. Anything else he could add to soften the blow of the fucking bomb he just dropped is caught in his throat; he’s frozen, and it only takes a second later for it to finally register with Louis.

The other boy’s eyes shoot open, his body goes stiff, the image of relaxation as he leant against that door gone, suddenly he’s alert, eyes wide and alarmed as he stares at Harry in complete and utter shock.

“You– you’re _what?”_ he splutters, breaths resorting back to what they were moments before; short, laboured. He stares at Harry in disbelief, words cautious as he leans forward, a little, like maybe he misheard him, “what did you just say?” 

_Fuck._

Harry blinks, unsure of where to even start. Louis’ looking at him like– like he’d never expect this, like this wasn’t even… wasn’t even a _possibility_ to him, and that’s just crazy to Harry. The words come to him, then, in those few seconds, what he knows he needs to tell Louis.

Harry swallows against the dryness in his throat, takes a breath, orders his thoughts, and just. Lets them go.

“I– I’m in love with you, Louis,” he breathes, and it feels so good to properly say it, after so long. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. I don’t– I’m not sure, like, if there was a specific moment, or if it’s been there, just, like, from the start. All I know is that I’ve never felt like this, about anyone, ever,” he pauses to gauge Louis’ reaction, sees the other boy staring across at him, expression neutral, concentrating, listening intently. Harry goes on. 

“And I–,” he sighs, “I fucked up. I don’t– the truth is, I saw you and your ex, together, at that stupid party, and I just– I thought it was something it wasn’t, and I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight, and I know, I _know_ that’s no excuse, but it’s the truth, and I just,” Harry cringes, even now, at the memory of the other guy’s hands on him, his lips on his, someone who wasn’t Louis, how wrong it felt. “I immediately, _immediately_ knew it was a mistake, the second we… I regretted it, even in the state I was in, I hated it, hated the feeling of kissing someone else. And we weren’t–” Harry gestures between them, now, “we weren’t even, like, together, or anything, but it felt like I was cheating on you, it felt… it felt awful. But I was jealous, and hurt, because… because I thought you’d kissed your ex, and I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t care, even when I obviously did, and it was so stupid, and immature, and I’m sorry I did it, I’m _so_ sorry, Lou,” his voice cracks, then, and frankly, Harry’s surprised he’d been able to get this far without his emotional distress making itself clear earlier on. 

He takes a deep breath, another one, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this in need of oxygen in his life, “I’ll always be sorry for treating you like that. For doing that to you. And I understand if you never want to see me again, if you don’t want anything to do with me. I’m sorry I’ve dumped this all on you at once, it wasn’t– wasn’t the plan, I suppose. I was going to ease into it, uh, a little bit more,” he chuckles lowly, despite himself, “didn’t quite mean to start with that, either.”

There’s more silence between them, as they both take in what Harry’s just said. He hadn’t even really been thinking when he spoke, just let his mouth run away from him, word vomit that he couldn’t really stop, but he thinks, he hopes, that he’s managed to explain himself fully.

Louis’ still staring at Harry, expression slightly altered. His brows, furrowed ever so slightly. The tiniest little hint of his lips quirked up to the side. Eyes glimmering, glowing softly across at Harry. It’s encouraging, to say the least.

Louis sighs, leaning back against the door again. He blows out a puff of air, shakes his head, and every tiny reaction makes Harry’s heart race.

“Nothing happened with me and my ex, Harry.”

They’re the first words he’s said in a little while, and it’s equal parts puzzling and relieving that this is the first thing he chooses to tell Harry.

Harry allows himself another little self-deprecating smile. “I realised that, uh, pretty quickly after. Knew you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did if something had, you know. Happened.” 

Louis nods, then, once, eyes elsewhere, still not giving much away. 

Harry feels himself relax a little, though, assured by the fact that Louis hasn’t slammed the door in his face. Not yet, anyway. 

“I sort of panicked, I think,” Harry continues to explain, needing to get absolutely everything out, it’s like he can’t stop. “‘Cause I’d never felt– like that, before. About anyone, like I said. It sort of, sort of scared me, for a moment. And then I thought by kissing someone else, I could convince myself our kiss meant nothing, to save myself the– the heartache of, I guess. I dunno,” Harry sighs, shuts his eyes for a moment. “I was wrong, though. So, so wrong.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” Louis murmurs, then, so sincerely and kindly, voice gone from something harsh and cold to something soft and tender. The way Harry remembers it. 

He opens his eyes, and Louis’ staring right at him, intently. “No, not at all.”

“It meant something, Harry,” Louis assures him, and it’s the second time Harry thinks a tear might escape, “It still does. Mean a lot. To me.” And then Louis does that thing, the thing where he fixes his fringe, the thing he does when he’s nervous, and suddenly it’s gone a little quieter. “It means a lot to me because I– I’ve fallen just as in love with you as you have with me, Harry.”

And Harry doesn’t– his mind, it doesn’t, it can’t even _begin_ to process. 

_Louis._ Telling him he’s in love with him. 

“So when I saw you kiss someone else, Harry, I– I thought–”, Louis continues, voice breaking, features crumpling once again, and Harry’s ecstacy quickly plummets, “I– it _broke_ me Harry, you– you really did break my heart, a little bit.”

Hearing those words leave Louis’ mouth, like that, right after he’d just… it’s like whiplash, and Harry slumps against the door, limbs suddenly feeling like weights, dragging him down. He’s never felt so fucking terrible in his life, never wanted to go back in time and change his actions more than right now, right at this moment, just so he’d never have to look at the boy he loves, pain written so clearly all over his face, with the knowledge that he and he alone was the one who caused it. It’s the worst feeling in the world.

Harry bites his lip, scrunches his nose up in the way he’s done since he was a kid, to force the tears that are threatening to escape back inside, away. “I never wanted to make you feel like this, Lou. Please know that,” he begs, now, any shred of dignity Harry had left long gone. 

Louis stares at him. Just stares at him, eyes shiny and wet, a sight Harry never wanted to see again. And then he does something that Harry doesn’t expect.

Louis reaches out, slowly, but confidently, eyes never drifting from Harry’s. It’s a second before Harry feels Louis’ fingers tangle with his own, warm, soft, and relief at the feeling courses through Harry like nothing else he’s ever felt. 

“I know, Harry,” Louis smiles, a shaky, tentative smile. “I know.”

Harry doesn’t know how long they stand there, holding hands in the doorway like that, with still a whole host of loose ends floating in the air that need tying up. 

For now, though… for now, it’s alright. 

Somehow, Harry realises, as he eventually pulls Louis towards him, wrapping the other boy in his arms, gently, tightly, tenderly, he realises that they’re going to be okay.

Somehow, they’re both going to be okay.

–

They’d decided to give each other space, just for a couple of days. Just to think things over, they’d said, figure out, well, everything.

Harry knows it’s more for Louis’ benefit rather than his own, but he’d suggested it nonetheless. It hadn’t felt fair for them to just carry on, after that, after he’d said his whole piece, and Louis had barely gotten a sentence in. Harry also knows that, had they just started something, right then and there, Louis probably would have kept everything to himself, bottling it up inside, never ending up telling Harry, which. Is definitely not ideal. 

He’d left the ball in Louis’ court, told him to text him when he felt ready to have a proper chat, and not just an emotional and slightly cheesy love confession in his doorway, that, in hindsight, Harry is almost _certain_ every single one of Louis’ neighbours probably heard.

It’s about four days later - four days of Harry waiting patiently, trying to distract himself, trying not to imagine any worst case scenarios - when Louis finally texts him.

_**have done some thinking, H . can i come see u ? later this afternoon ? - lou x**_

–

It’s just gone six when Louis knocks at Harry’s door.

Harry tries to ignore the way his hand shakes, the way his neck feels hot and palms clammy, as he definitely does _not_ speed across the room to answer the door.

“Hi,” Harry breathes, as soon as he catches sight of Louis. Relief washes over him, just a little bit, at the familiar image of Louis standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, half smile on his face, ready to talk. Willing to. Even that’s enough for Harry.

Louis’ lips quirk upwards, ever so slightly, blinking his eyes languidly where he stands opposite Harry. “Hi.”

Harry can feel the tension between them - the unresolved, unanswered questions that float up in the air, neither one of them wanting to be the first one to break, it seems.

Harry opens the door, fully, gestures a hand inside. “Do you want to come in?” he offers, voice hesitant, unsure why he phrased it like that, like a question. He’s just a little unsure of a lot, apparently.

Louis nods, smally, gaze at the ground as he steps inside, tentatively. Harry shuts the door, takes a second to breathe, before following Louis.

Louis’ sat down on the sofa, right at the end, and he looks a little lost in thought. Chin in hand, brows furrowed and eyes glassy, focussed on something ahead of him. Harry sits down next to him, slowly, not wanting to disturb him or his thoughts too much. He watches him, waits for a little bit. 

They sit like that for a while, not really saying much. Harry had instructed Liam to go and ‘have some fun with Zayn’ for the afternoon, citing some much needed privacy as his reason. Liam was a tad confused, to be fair, just because Harry hadn’t wanted to really say anything until him and Louis had had this chat first. Nevertheless, Harry can safely say him and Louis won’t have any interruptions for the rest of the evening, knowing Liam and Zayn, so that’s reassuring.

Louis, as if going by theme, ends up breaking the silence yet again.

“You know, I wasn’t really running late,” he remarks, apropos of nothing, and Harry doesn’t quite follow.

“Hm?” he asks, glancing up at Louis from where he’d been mindlessly fiddling with his hands in his lap. 

Louis turns to him, eyes distant, mindful. “The other day,” he adds, a moment later. “I wasn’t actually running late. Just wanted to drag it out a bit, I think.”

Harry stills his fidgeting, curious. “Why?” he asks, although he thinks he might have an idea.

Louis sighs, focuses on Harry properly, now, expression slightly weary. “Probably ‘cos I thought you deserved it. I dunno,” he shrugs, looking away, and, yeah, Harry had had a hunch.

“Maybe I did,” Harry comments, tone thoughtful. “I think I did. A bit.”

Louis hums. He looks back at Harry, and the tone of the room has slipped into something a little more serious than before. “I was a bit nervous, too. Maybe that was it.”

Harry nods, remembering what he felt like. He leans back, lets his head rest on the back of the sofa, focusing on Louis. “I was shitting myself, Lou.”

Louis snorts, then, and the delicate balance in the room shifts, at the ridiculousness of it, and it makes Harry laugh too, a slow, amused chuckle. “Good to know I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, then.”

There’s a still pause, as Harry stares across at this boy. His boy. Almost. “You were never the only one who felt that way, Louis.”

Louis’ expression transforms into something softened, tips of his cheeks flushing just enough to tell Harry that Louis knows what he’s actually referencing. He places an arm on the back of the sofa, tucks his face into the crook of his elbow, so just his eyes and nose are visible to Harry. 

“Don’t hide your smile,” Harry murmurs, his own lips curled up at the edges, half-heartedly reaching across to bat the obstruction to his view away.

Louis’ brow furrows, and his voice comes out a little muffled. “How d’you know I’m smiling?” he asks, voice raspy and so indignant, even now.

Harry chews his lip, nervously, before he answers. “Your eyes crinkle up at the edges, when you smile. You’ve got these sweet little lines at the corners. Was one of the first things I noticed about you.”

Louis puts his whole head in the crook of his arm, now, no doubt a blush forming on his cheeks. Harry finds it adorable, though, really. He doesn’t think anything Louis does will ever not be endearing to him. 

“You make me smile a lot, you know,” Louis tells him, so sincere and sweet, and it catches Harry completely off guard.

His breath hitches at hearing the words, stomach flipping, and now _he’s_ the one blushing. “Good,” he manages to reply, failing to keep the fondness out of his voice, “that’s all I ever want to do, Lou.”

Louis opens his arm, and Harry can see his face, then. Can see his flushed cheeks, his pleased smile. His gorgeous eyes, the way they shine as the light coming from the window next to them hits the blue in them.

They sit like that again for a little while, content in their long, comfortable silence. 

Harry’s about to break it this time, but, again, Louis beats him to it.

“I know, at the party, you saw me and my ex, like. Talking, and hugging, or–”

Harry frowns, voice demurred, “you don’t have to explain yourself, Lou, I shouldn’t have–”

“Wait,” Louis interrupts, gently, hand lightly on Harry’s to silently stop him. “I wasn’t finished.”

Harry blinks, and then nods, smiling smally. He gestures for Louis to continue.

“What I was _trying_ to say,” he gently intones, voice tentatively playful as he focuses on his hands, choosing his words carefully, “was that, like. What you saw was us, I don’t know. I suppose making peace with each other. Or me making peace with him. I spent so long being angry at him, for the way he treated me. And, I mean, I’m not saying it was justified, because it wasn’t, like. At all. I mean _you_ know, I told you what he was like.” 

Harry remembers them lying in bed, that one night. Remembers the feeling of instinctive defense he got when Louis’ had told him about this guy, the intense and completely unjustified hatred of this random ex. He tries not to tap too much into that feeling right now. 

“He’d be so discouraging of me, talk down to me, make me feel stupid. It wasn’t healthy, towards the end. Still broke my heart, when he ended it, though.” Louis’ voice goes all quiet, for a moment, almost wistful. He clears his throat, “anyway, it was when I realised how I felt about _you,_ that I decided I wasn’t angry anymore. That you were basically everything he wasn’t to me. That you were kind, and caring, and thoughtful. Not to mention extremely intelligent, too. And you– you really liked me. All of me. I realised I was happy, really, really happy, and that I could let go of all that negative shit I still had in regards to him.” 

Louis looks up at Harry, eyes impossibly soft. “So, that’s what you saw, at the party. I can sort of, slightly understand why you reacted the way you did, in a way, though. Albeit it was a little bit dramatic.” Louis actually winks at Harry, then, and Harry can’t help but crack a smile. “I mean, I can imagine what it looked like–”

“Still doesn’t excuse my behaviour, though,” Harry cuts in, reminding Louis, not letting him let Harry off the hook so easily. 

Louis smiles at him, then, lazily. “No, maybe not. But you can stop beating yourself up about it now, love. Promise.”

Harry doesn’t seem as sure. He frowns, and starts fiddling with Louis’ shoes again. “Still…” he mumbles, unsure of where he was taking it.

He hears Louis sigh exaggeratedly next to him, and he feels the sofa shift from the other side. Harry frowns, and glances over to see Louis off the sofa, standing over him, shuffling closer until his knees hit the soft cushion, legs spread to enclose Harry’s. Even this is enough to make Harry a little short of breath, but then Louis actually crawls onto Harry’s lap, suddenly straddling him, all the while the sweet little smile remains across his lips. 

Harry’s hands come to rest lightly on Louis’ hips, and he tries extremely hard not to let his body react embarrassingly to the fact that there’s a boy, a very attractive boy at that, quite literally sitting right on his crotch. He takes a shaky breath.

Louis gazes down at Harry, one hand steadying himself on Harry’s shoulder, the other cupping his cheek, fingers light and delicate on his skin. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” he murmurs, words as quiet as a secret, and Harry knows he means every word.

Harry’s eyes flutter shut, for a second, just Louis’ touch enough to loosen him like this. He focuses on Louis’ eyes, then, his own pair flickering between Louis’, taking in the steady, beautiful blue. “I didn’t,” he agrees, nodding once. “And I promise you, Lou, if we– if we do this,” he starts, grip tightening just a little on Louis’ hips as he says it. “Us. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

Louis hums, as he twirls one of Harry’s curls around his finger, mindlessly. His voice is low when he speaks, and the words come out in a playful tone, but Harry knows there a bit of a warning there; a fear he can’t help. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, darling.”

Harry lifts a hand up, cupping Louis’ cheek, so they mirror each other, and gently encourages Louis to focus his gaze on him. He smiles softly at the boy, waits until he gets one back. “I don’t,” Harry finally replies, shaking his head. “I promise.” 

It’s silly, really, a dumb joke, but Harry means every word. He’s sure Louis knows he does too, and then, when Louis’ smile grows, eyes crinkling like they always do, and he nods in response a moment later, Harry’s positive he does. 

“You’re gonna need to work on your jokes, H,” Louis whispers giddily, as he starts to lean down, eyes on Harry’s mouth.

Harry takes that opportunity to lick his lips, just because, before asking, “oh really? And why is that, Lou?”

Louis exhales, and Harry feels the warm air on his lips, a shiver running down his spine at the feeling. “Well, you’ll be way too embarrassing to take anywhere, otherwise. And we can’t have that.”

Harry stifles a smile, and furrows his brows as he attempts to maintain his pretend curious expression, “oh yeah? Why not?” 

“Oh for God’s sake, Harry,” Louis mutters, mouth inches from Harry’s, “you’re absolutely impossible.”

And Harry doesn’t get a chance to respond, Louis’ mouth on his in a matter of seconds, the warm press of his against Harry’s welcomed eagerly. They’re both smiling too much for it to advance into anything else, too busy peppering each other with little pecks in between giggles, tasting each other’s distinct sweetness.

They slow down after a bit, Harry’s lips tingling from the amount of kisses they’ve shared, head dizzy and mouth fuzzy, skin hot under Louis’ touch. Harry takes his hand from Louis’ cheek, and places it over Louis’ hand on his own cheek, twining their fingers together gingerly. 

The setting sun hits Louis’ eyes wonderfully, as he sits there in front of it; sky blues under pale greens under barely-there golds, so many layers that Harry had never seen before. He brings their linked hands to his swollen lips, and plants a delicate kiss onto Louis’ knuckles.

He giggles, that lovely, twinkly laugh that, in hindsight, is probably what he fell in love with about Louis first. “What was that for?” he asks, skin glowing under the light. 

Harry shrugs, because he doesn’t know, not really. “Nothin’,” he replies, simply. “Just wanted to.”

Louis seems content at the answer, as he nods, pleased. He takes that moment to rearrange himself, so that he’s still sitting in Harry’s lap, just with his legs spread out on the sofa again, his back pressed half against the arm, and half against Harry’s chest. 

Harry smiles down at him, utterly besotted. “Comfy?” he jokes.

Louis nods, lifting his elbow up to rest on the arm of the sofa, his hand immediately going to Harry’s hair. Harry thinks this playing with his hair might become a thing and he tries not to get too excited at that prospect. 

“I’m transferring to the Drama Studies course this semester.”

It’s said so casually, so off the cuff, not even missing a beat while he plays with Harry’s hair, that Harry almost misses it completely. 

Harry sits up, slightly, causing Louis’ hand to drop, unfortunately. “What?!” Harry exclaims, happy and confused and excited all at the same time, “how did you–? And when did–?” he can’t even talk properly, chest swelling with pride as he looks down at his boy, his ambitious, director-in-the-making of a boy, “why didn’t you tell me!”

“I just did!” Louis chuckles, trying to seem casual, but Harry can tell he’s as pleased as anything. “Caught up on most of the first semester’s work during Christmas, even spent my birthday studying–”

“Ah, so that’s why I never got a text back. Got it.”

Louis makes a face, like a grumpy kitten, or something fitting that description. 

“I’m just joking, Lou,” Harry assures him, leaning down to hug him properly, immensely excited, “that’s amazing, though, I’m so proud of you,” his voice comes out slightly muffled where his mouth is pressed against Louis’ neck, “seriously, I knew you’d do it.” 

Louis gives him a modest little smile, rolling his eyes lightheartedly. “Thanks, H,” he replies, sounding genuinely pleased, “I’m so happy I did it.”

“ _I’m_ so happy you did it!” Harry almost yells, because Louis is happy, so, so happy, and that alone makes Harry a little bit happy, too. “Louis Tomlinson, Theatre Director. Sounds fucking brilliant if you ask me.”

Louis cackles at him, and Harry knows he’s being ridiculous, but he can’t help it. Doesn’t want to.

“Okay, let’s not get to far ahead of ourselves here, love–”

Harry holds a hand up, stopping him mid-sentence, “sorry, can’t hear you over all the applause my boyfriend’s gonna get when–”

“Boyfriend, eh? Is that what we are?” 

Harry’s eyes snap open, and Louis’ smirking right at him, smug as anything. 

Harry blushes, deep this time, and averts his eyes from Louis as his words rush out like word vomit, not for the first time with him. “Oh, well, I sort of– but if you don’t want to, that’s so fine, we can take things slo–”

“H,” Louis teases, tugging on one of his curls. “I’m only joking.” Louis echoes Harry’s words from earlier, and, okay, he probably deserved that.

Harry looks back over at Louis, pleased to see a sincere expression on his face. “Okay, good,” he chuckles, “else I’d kick you out right now.”

Louis laughs again, and it’s a gorgeous sound. “No you wouldn’t, you little liar,” and he leans up, then, punctuating his words with a kiss. 

Harry giggles into it, because Louis’ right, of course. 

“I am really proud of you, you know,” Harry tells him, once they part. “Like, so proud I could burst, proud.”

Louis grins, and tilts his head at Harry. “Wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for your little inspirational 4am speech, love.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, a little more surprised at this. “Wait,” he starts, brows furrowing a little, “like, actually?” he asks, slightly in disbelief.

Louis nods up at him, slowly. “Yeah, really. Don’t think I would have done it without you, H,” he admits, which really just, knocks the air out of Harry for a second.

“Woah,” Harry breathes, and leans back a little more. He looks at Louis again, admiring him, all of him. He takes Louis’ hand in his, squeezes it gently. “So fucking proud of you,” he repeats, smiling broadly at him. 

Louis grins, and then blows Harry a kiss from about thirty centimetres away, which is as ridiculous as it is cute, so Harry has no qualms about it. “Only downside now is that I won’t be in Philosophy with you anymore,” he says, tone regretful, and Harry can tell he feels a little guilty about it.

Harry shrugs, completely unfazed by what Louis’ said. After all, he’d hoped Louis would switch courses; knew what that would have meant ages ago. “‘S fine,” Harry says, voice a casual, relaxed tone, “I think I’ll be alright, actually.”

Louis’ brow furrows, mouth a slight curve, and he senses something, Harry can tell. “Is it?” he asks, not convinced at all, crossing his arms when he says, “how’s that, then?” 

Harry stares at him for a moment, knows he’s probably got that glint in his eye when he’s about to tell a really stupid joke. “Oh, you know,” he drawls, waving a dismissive hand in front of him, milking it for all that it’s worth. 

Louis’ smile starts to spread, and he narrows his eyes, suspicious, unsure of what’s coming. “No, what do I know, Harry?”

Harry pauses, leans closer. He clears his throat, watching Louis intently as he says it. 

“Well,” he simpers, eyes dancing between Louis’, voice gone soft, sincere, sure. He means every word; wants Louis to know that. “I had a fucking brilliant tutor, didn’t I?”

–


End file.
